Legacy II
by ruth baulding
Summary: AU Lineage/Legacy series. Pursuant to a high level assassination, Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan Kenobi visit an affluent Mid Rim planet and face crises of the present, future and past. Chapter 30: featuring one of /those/ Council sessions, a chat with Dooku, and a lot of sand.
1. Chapter 1

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Dreams show many things: that which is, that which has been, that which may yet be. The Force lends a peculiar cogency to these glimpses into its latent fathoms: a bright supernal edging to the gilt figures of memory or premonition, like the illuminated margins of some ancient manuscript, a painstaking adornment which, though enchanting, does not always thereby unlock the elusive inner meaning of its ephemeral symbols. Dreams are troublesome that way.

And even a Jedi may dream.

_Seed pods, twirling in the warm breeze, their tiny arms outstretched as they whirl and dodge among the rising dust motes, as they dance a giddy path along the shafting sunbeams' translucent girders. For that is what the pale columns of late-day radiance are: the sky's fretted rafters, buttresses of high heaven, an architecture of complex and beautiful design. He is lost in it, wandering freely among the pure straight edges of this invisible sanctuary, rising with the joyful seed-pods, spinning with them as they exult in the clear blue dome overhead, the roof of the world, lifted on the swelling currents. The wind blows through him; when he shuts his eyes, he is giddy from looking upward, but he also feels the pulse of that limitless power, the coursing wind – the one that is everywhere, unceasing. He thinks when he holds his breath he can dam it, hold it for ever so short a space of time, but it always bursts the dams of his reserve, teasingly overflowing and rejoining its great and burbling original. So he lets it carry his breath, too, in and out, up and up, until he is a seed pod and the world around is nothing but golden wind, the same wind that sways the green walls of his fortress, the bending stalks of grass like subtle walls, the tall proud blades chiming – hear them, _shh shh shh, _quiet reed bells like the ones hung in the garden – and the breeze lifts his hair too, like the grass, like his soaring spirit, far far over this sweet aromatic nest, out into limitless blue. Up there, there is nothing but the sun, pale and beneficent and _good.

_He has few words, few fine-crafted diadems of particularity with which to crown his reality. But this deserves one, a title to match its inherent splendor, the ever-moving, uplifting, downpouring, all-encompassing. He searches the shallow reservoirs of new-forged memory, and finds the right word lying like a jewel amid its setting. _Light._ This is Light, and he thinks he will lie here forever with his face turned upward to it like the tiny tiny white flowers that follow the path of the sun, the ones that grow amid the long green stems. _

_When he discovers, quite by accident, that he can keep his face turned to the Light even with his eyes closed, he veils the world behind a fretwork of golden lashes, and peers out through the delicate ramparts thus constructed, watching the green sway and the blue reel and the seed-pods carouse and the wind sing. He might fall asleep, too, cradled in the same new-christened totality that circumscribes the boundaries of this innocent paradise._

In the present moment, in another truth, a starship shuddered subliminally, the hull reverberating as the incalculable impetus of a superdimensional hyperspace jump was compacted again into mere extension, and the vessel reverted. The familiar jolting was not sufficient to wake the weary sleeper, enmeshed as he was in deepest recollection, but it did disturb the surface of the dream, sending a ripple over the limpid surface of its reflecting pool, gently rearranging the image into another.

_There is a little bug, rolled into a tight ball like a plaything. The plates of its armor are a lovely smoke-blue, and when one finger is prodded gently – oh so gently – against its stomach, the creature unfurls and wriggles its superfluity of legs. There are far, far too many legs. It makes him giggle immensely, especially when it crawls over his outstretched finger and onto the soft skin of his palm. There are feelers attached to its head, two gossamer fine hairs that wave this way and that, testing out the soil-smudged and very uneven terrain. When his hand quivers – for it tickles badly – the bug rolls up tight again and then tumbles over the edge back to the soft earth. But his concerned frown smooths into content, for it recovers quickly enough and scuttles away between the blades of tall grass, disappearing into the dark cool shelter of their endless forest. He squints into this lush shadow, seeking after the departing bug – but there is something else in there now, something _wonderful.

_The marvel is furry and soft and has beady black eyes and an odd naked tail peeping out behind its comically rounded rump. White whiskers twitch and shiver, and the rapid beat of its blood and breath are almost too fast to feel. It is warm, too, like him. And it is afraid._

_The world is leached of its radiance, and a jagged rent is carved into the flawless masonry of the skies – overhead, felt as a contraction of shadow, a winged thing circles. It is not like the seed pods, though it spins and glides. Somehow, between this furred thing that pants and trembles beneath the sheltering grass, and that majestic fringed form above, there is a dark umbilicum, a thread of tension that twists uncomfortably in his own gut. And when the creature on high shrieks, he clasps his hands over his ears and buries his face in the sweet-scented ground. But it is of no use; he feels the furry thing dash away - foolish foolish don't do it don't go – and he _feels_ the talons swoop, clutch, crush, and impale, and he feels the sudden _hole _in the world, the quickly shrinking aperture where there _was _something but there _is not_ something now…_

_And he whimpers. Because for a moment the light was sundered and a sickening empty space was revealed behind it, below it, encroaching. And he liked the furry thing, too, and he is sad that it is gone. He adds _death_ to his litany of names, and it has a sound like that hunting cry: harsh and shrill-pitched, echoing off the distant roof of heaven, a clarion call of some other power, one he has not yet met but which lies in wait, jaws open. And that is when he starts struggling, for paradise has been lost, and nightmare waits in the wings, on the swiftly darkening horizon where purples and indigos draw heavy mantles over the sinking sun. Even the tiny white heliotropes have closed their petals and bowed their heads, patient recluses awaiting the return of day. There is no longer safety and peace here in the green field. _

The sleeper stirred restlessly, surfacing far enough from the dream to break the spell of its terror, and to make a swift instinctual scan for danger – a cautionary _reaching_ into the plenum, a habit of many years' long and rigorous making. His semi-conscious exploration – nothing more than a featherlight brush of mind through the Force, a seeking of compass points, of familiar landmarks – discovered no immediate threat or warning of turbulence ahead. Instead it encountered a familiar and reassuring presence, a bulwark like some immovable stone in a river's bend, and so quieted, subsiding into a dwindling curiosity insufficient to entirely banish the claims of sleep. He drifted off once again.

_He hunkers down, here, in his secret fortress amid the grasses. Nobody can see him here, when he lies down on his belly. The flower stems bend over him, and the breeze washes them this way and that, an endless sea of verdant leaf and pure white flowers, always keeping their faces to the sun. He can hear voices calling him now, his name floating out over the vastness of the field again and again, first cajoling and then annoyed and now perhaps laced with something more, an edge of worry, of fear, of that same terrible sundering… will the feathered beast dive down and snatch him away too, and make of him a hole in the world where once there was something? The strident tones of the voices now proclaim that all is not well, that something is already missing from the world, that he is already a hole._

_This is terrifying. He flounders, drowning in the turbulent currents, all Light and dark and fear and need tumbling together and he is a river rock slammed pell mell against the shores of others' voices, smashed and spun and dunked beneath a current he can feel but cannot control. He tries to cry out for help, but there is so much – so very much – flooding in and around him that his breath is knocked away, spun out into the sky with the breeze and the Light and he cannot breathe and he cannot move and then, mercifully, the voices grow near and one is calling that he has been found – that all is well – and arms pick him up, a swoop of cold air as he is lifted from his hiding place trembling and sobbing. He is wrapped in something warm, and the softest voice, the most beloved one, is murmuring his name over and over, a sing-song recitation that harnesses the raging currents back into tranquility and smothers the tempest in a warm embrace. He is limp, falling asleep to the lullaby of that repeated name. _

Ironically, that self-same name, repeated with rather more emphatic and purposeful intonation, brought him starting to full wakefulness.

"Obi-Wan. _Obi-Wan."_

Registering a painful crick in his neck, the fact that his left leg had gone numb from crimped circulation, that his cloak was musty and twisted awkwardly around his shoulders, and that the Force-forsaken public transport seemed to have at long, long last docked and depressurized - and that he was therefore free to quit its stale and stultifying environs posthaste - Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi released a long and expressive groan under his breath and made an unenthusiastic assessment of the passenger compartment before offering his traveling companion a distinctly watery smile.

"For stars' sake," he griped, with no particular object of imprecation in mind.

"Agreed," Qui-Gon Jinn murmured, standing with a pronounced _pop_ of either his spine or his knees.

A steward droid was shuffling along the aisle toward them, chivvying passengers away down the narrow passage toward the disembarkation ramps, and electronically checking luggage. "We have arrived at Coruscant Intergalactic, sirs. May I scan your luggage?"

Obi-Wan cocked a brow. "We travel light." He brushed one hand over his 'saber hilt before whisking the cloak's folds into place again, effectively concealing the gleaming weapon.

"Very good, sirs." The cybernetic porter was not to be put off. "If you are unfamiliar with the many scenic and cultural features of the Jewel of the Republic, I would be happy to upload a helpful brochure to your 'pad, or perhaps advise you on transport and accommodation options in the near vicinity?"

Qui-Gon grunted noncommittally, rubbing a weary hand over his craggy face.

"We've been here before," his younger counterpart informed the droid, deftly bowing his insincere thanks and shepherding his manifestly disgruntled mentor out the cabin door and down the connecting passage. "One short air taxi ride – and the obligatory traffic jam – and we'll be back at the Temple, Master. Try not to collapse until we're actually in quarters."

The tall Jedi seemed to draw a modicum of renewed energy from the bantering tone of this admonition. "Says the man who slept the last four hours of our journey."

They waited patiently at the end of a long queue of exiting passengers, cloaked and cowled, arms folded into opposite sleeves. "Yes. Well."

"Not to fret," Qui-Gon assured his comrade. "I knew you would be but poor company the moment we jumped to hyperspace after the last refueling stop. After all, your personal record for consecutive hours without sleep is eighty-three standard, and we were coming up on seventy-five or so."

The young Knight snorted. "So I'm losing my touch, is what you are saying."

The line moved slowly forward, bringing them to the threshold of the ramp. "No,no." Qui-Gon smiled softly, his expression hidden by the deep folds of his cloak hood. "But perhaps you are at long last losing the immoderate vitality of adolescence."

"Ah… but where does that leave you, then?"

They flashed their passes at the waiting clerk, and were waved forward. "Believe me, Obi-Wan, I would have been snoring right alongside you had I been able… alas, the ravages of age prevent me from enjoying much needed rest in such _cramped_ surroundings."

His former student did not quirk an outward smile nor bat a lash, but his amusement was felt keenly in the Force between them nonetheless. "That's not to be credited to excessive age, Master – merely excessive height. As Master Seva says, _he who towers highest falls furthest, _and – "

"And _he who taunts his elders with words had better be prepared to back up his impertinence in the dojo."_

"I do not recall any such aphorism," Obi-Wan objected, as they tramped down the worn ramp and reached the solidity of pock-marked duracrete decking.

Qui-Gon's long stride carried him forward, into the lead. "I would be honored to knock its wisdom into your head later, then – _after_ a long night's sleep. Or two or three."

Sharing a chuckle, they strode across the bustling tarmac side by side – and the rest of their exchange was swallowed up by the spaceport's ubiquitous pandemonium.


	2. Chapter 2

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Six weeks' absence had left its baleful traces upon their shared quarters, despite Qui-Gon's detailed and strident instructions to the automated cleaning staff. There was a tell-tale mustiness to the cycled 'air – nothing to be attributed to the Temple's super efficient ventilation network, but merely an inevitable result of decaying plant matter.

The tall Jedi master made some laconic _sotto voce_ remark upon the dubious competence of the droid gardeners, and set about assessing the damage to his drooping collection before he had so much as divested himself of cloak or boots. Obi-Wan, by contrast, trudged over the threshold to the dimly lit interior and made a beeline for the nearest round meditation cushion, upon which he sank down with a muffled expression of gratitude, eyes drifting closed and limbs slackening as he felt the familiar pulse of the Force in this place, his home. It was late - most the other residents in the vast buildings various wings had retired for the evening- but he still savored the quiet hum of diverse generations, the unspoken harmony of so many Jedi gathered under one colossal roof.

Qui-Gon plucked off dead foliage, imbued the worst victims of neglect with a generous and revivifying nudge of the Living Force and stalked off, grumbling, to locate a watering can, while his young companion tried and failed to achieve meditative quietude. Six _weeks –_ system after system, crisis after crisis, negotiations, hostilities, the tension of delicate intelligence work, the ennui of stalled diplomacy… he ran both hands through his mass of long hair and found it lamentably lank, in bad need of hot water and some cleansing liquid. But the 'fresher was so very, very far away and he was so very, very, very _tired._

"You'd better retire before you keel over where you sit," Qui-Gon advised, still busily puttering about on the balcony.

"The plants can _wait,_ Master," the younger man felt obliged to point out. "…We'll make a funeral pyre tomorrow."

A snort. "You are a heartless fellow, Obi-Wan."

He was? Too exhausted to muster impertinent reply, or to formulate any droll witticism in his own defense, the accused let his hands drop to his lap, between crossed ankles. "Guilty as charged. I choose voluntary exile in my bedchamber, whereto I shall be banished posthaste, never to return."

The tall man reemerged through the balcony doors, a small and miraculously tenacious seedling nestled beneath one arm. "No parole," he said, striding across the apartment and back into the outside corridor, presumably in search of paramedic aid for the ailing botanical specimen.

Obi-Wan heaved himself upward, groaning, and clamped down on an ear-splitting yawn with practiced Jedi stoicism. He was just on the point of serving the pronounced sentence upon himself when he thought to sync his commlink to the Temple system.

There were but few messages waiting for him: Senior Healer Ben To Li wished to know why neither he nor his esteemed mentor and accomplice in perfidy had appeared for their scheduled yearly physicals, and to issue various veiled threats against their obstreperous persons if they did not comply with expectations soon; Head Archivist Madame Nu had called to sternly demand the return of some holo-volume carelessly left to languish among the stack of others in Obi-Wan's current custody; Jedi Knight Feld Spruu politely inquired whether his friend might be available to _assist- _ ever a treacherously vague term – with instruction of a senior initiate and junior padawan class tomorrow afternoon.

All of which quotidian affairs seemed far too taxing even to take under consideration. He flicked the 'link closed and stuffed it back in a belt pouch, then half-stumbled into his own room and collapsed in an elegant sprawl across the low sleep mattress.

He did not even notice when Qui-Gon returned a few minutes later, and promptly followed his young comrade's fine example.

* * *

The Council had the good grace – or the simple prudence- not to summon the pair of returned sojourners until late morning the following day. They appeared dutifully before the circle of assembled masters and were delivered of a lengthy, tedious, and painstakingly detailed mission report covering the entire period of their absence and a dozen different consecutive assignments, taking it in turn to give accounting of their actions and to endure the mild interrogation consequent thereto. Over a year into their partnership as full ranking peers, if not quite equals, the cloud of notoriety that had hitherto dogged Qui-Gon Jinn's steps seemed to have dispersed somewhat, its ominous edges melted a bit by the sunshine radiance of his young counterpart's natural and deserved approval.

Still, the older man could not help but quirk a tiny wry smile whenever one of Obi-Wan's creative "negotiations" earned only an indulgent sigh or occasional flicker of amusement in the Force. His former padawan, meticulously groomed and exuding palpable deference to his elders, stood in the circle's center and calmly explained in cultured velvet tones that he had _imposed upon_ the Marthusian Dowager, that he had _appropriated _ planetary resources to a worthy cause on Belifax, that he been obliged to make an _expeditious departure_ from the prison bloc on Yammutz 6, and that the purported interim government on Ord Inistus was, in his considered opinion, a _wretched hive of scum and villainy—_ while the Councilors placidly sat by and nodded their understanding or even tacit approval.

Had Qui-Gon made any _one_ of those bald declarations, he would immediately have been censured for rogue conduct. It was, he noted with passionless detachment, simply not fair.

The thought attracted his companion's notice, for Obi-Wan glanced in his direction, the most fleeting of impudent smirks twinkling in his eyes.

_Brat. Revel in it while you may._ After all, they had a salle reserved for two hours this evening, and then they would see who had much yet to learn and who was – still - the master.

* * *

Midday meal served as breakfast, and they ate with proportional relish, in the comradely but respectful quiet typical of the Temple's senior refectories. Only when their plates had been whisked away by an efficient droid waitron, and they were sitting over the cooling dregs of silpa tea, did Obi-Wan venture to break the comfortable silence.

"I've not forgotten our appointment in the dojo later," he said, with several gleeful nuances of anticipation. "If, of course, you are sufficiently recovered."

Qui-Gon skewered him with a disdainful look. "I am not so ancient as _all that,_ my friend."

"You misinterpret me," the younger Jedi replied, feigning wounded feelings.

"Hm. I'll _misinterpret_ you later." The tall man waved a hand. "Until eighteenth hour, then."

Obi-Wan's bow was every bit as low and heartfelt as it had been when the sacred oaths of apprenticeship had bound them together; the former master of the pair was tempted to abrogate his resolution to give the young man a resounding thrashing with his saber later…. until he observed the cocky swagger that carried the aforesaid scamp out the wide doors and into the adjoining concourse, cloak hem frisking merrily at his heels.

And even then he could not entirely repress his chuckle.

* * *

The fulfillment of various minor duties was a simple matter after a good meal and a solid night's rest. Obi-Wan returned the truant holo-book to the Archives and meekly endured Jocasta Nu's chiding lecture (_the Archives are a repository of wisdom for the entire Order, Kenobi, not a private treasure hoard from which you may plunder at will), _apologetically rescheduled the mandatory physical exam in the Healers' ward, choosing a date upon which he would, if the Force favored him, be a convenient thousand parsecs away on another mission (_no no, there's no need to pester Master Li, simply convey my regards to him later), _ and then ventured upward to the boisterous corridors that housed the older initiate dormitories and classrooms.

Jedi Knight Feld Spruu's tall, trim figure was lounging idly against the wall outside a large instruction hall.

"What's this?" Obi-Wan jested, drawing alongside his Twi'Lek colleague. "A Knight of the Order loitering about without purpose or direction? For shame."

"Kenobi!" One blue hand shot out, seizing the thick bundle of chestnut hair tied back behind the newcomer's head and bestowing upon it an amicably ferocious tug. "Still as smart-mouthed as ever. And scruffy.. look at this mess. You know, there's no need to display unbecoming envy of my _lekku…_ but if you want to dazzle the ladies, you should divide that mangy tangle into _two_ and drape one side over your left shoulder." He demonstrated with his own magnificent headtails, grinning broadly enough to reveal stunningly white – and slightly pointed – teeth.

Size mattered not, but anyone even casually familiar with comparative biology would know that Feld's endowments were indeed ostentatious and, from a prospective Twi'Lek mate's perspective, rather promising.

"Ma'dhuu le yimasa," his friend shot back. "Besides, personal vanity is forbidden, as is _slothful squandering of the gift granted us by existence."_

Feld dragged a hand over his rugged blue features. "Save me," he moaned. 'Not another lecture." He pulled a horrified face and backed away a pace, peering through the slatted observation port in the classroom door to check on the proceedings inside. "Hells' moons - old Yoda always goes far over time."

"Is your padawan in there?"

"Yes, and I need her for this afternoon's session – you are coming, I presume? I knew you would not let me down!"

"I'll _help. _Though I have a bad feeling about this."

The tall Twi'Lek quietly guffawed. "Obi-Nobi, always the doomsday prophet. What, oh what, have I ever done to deserve such aspersion heaped upon my innocent head? We are only going to play Push-feather with the little ones."

"I _knew_ I had a bad feeling about this."

* * *

As it turned out, Feld had reserved a wide gymnasium and recruited two other senior padawans to assist with the planned lesson: Karmuch Aell, a patient Tarpaun who was always eager to lend a hand with the younglings, and who was almost certainly destined for an illustrious career as clan or crèche master – and Master Adi Gallia's young protégé, the redoubtable Siri Tachi.

A sharp _frisson_ ran through the Force before either she or Obi-Wan could throw up mental shields. The byplay escaped the notice of the room's twenty excited young pupils, all eagerly anticipating some sort of entertaining new game – but Feld Spruu was not so oblivious. He raised brows at his companion, registering mild concern.

Obi-Wan shook his head, a minute signal that nothing was amiss. Nothing _was_ amiss. What cause for alarm was there in a chance meeting between himself and Siri? None at all. His abruptly elevated pulse could protest all it liked, and the vibrant flush spreading over Siri's high cheekbones and smooth forehead could proclaim contrariwise until Hoth thawed, but there was _nothing_ of consequence in the occasion.

"Ah, Padawan Tachi, you could come after all!" Feld enthused, drawing Siri into the warm circle of his private regard. "Excellent."

"My master was called away unexpectedly to the Legislative district; there is an important meeting between several Mid-Rim principalities this evening – a diplomatic dinner – and as you know, her family is well-connected. Her cousin is in attendance as well." Stass Allie, a scion of the same influential Tholothian house as Adi Gallia, was in many ways the heir presumptive to the Councilwoman's position both within the Order and in the Coruscanti ambassadorial venue.

Siri's speech was quick, clipped with professional alacrity and precision, and determinedly and exclusively directed at Feld. Her glorious white-gold hair was tightly bound into a double fish-tail plait, a taut weaving of discipline, a complex knot like that binding her iron will to her calling.

"And I presume I need not make introductions?" Feld's dazzling smile widened as he thrust an arm in his companion's direction.

There was no circumventing the awkward encounter. Siri met his gaze evenly, crystal clear eyes widening and mouth tightening at the corners as she realized what etiquette their difference of rank demanded. Her breath rose and fell, a soundless exhalation laced with every possible degree of irony, and bent her head in the obligatory bow to a superior. "Master Kenobi," she intoned.

He kept a perfect sabaac face – but she knew him well… far far too well. Her blush deepened as she sensed his inward and highly mischievous delight in the formal show of submission. And the sapphire lightning of her upward glance – fleet and combative, and just perhaps tinged with humor – did nothing to quell the enticing thrill in his gut.

Obi-Wan looked away, casting his gaze over the assembled younglings instead. Zhoa Pleromata, Feld's vivacious young Nautolan apprentice, stood in a cluster of her agemates, watching the proceedings with wide opalescent eyes.

"Master Obi-Wan!" she chirped, skipping across the smooth floorboards toward him. She, too, made a him a deep obeisance and then looked up, her black pearl eyes shining with hero worship. "Are you _really_ going to play with us today?"

He smiled, shutting out the distracting awareness of Siri's awareness of _him,_ her gaze now traveling luxuriously down his back, tracing a sizzling line of approval along his spine. "Only if you promise to show clemency," he answered the youngling, flashing a lopsided smile. "I'm rather intimidated already."

Zhoa giggled and fidgeted, delicate fingers fretting with the hem of her overlarge tunic. "It's easy; all you have to do is knock your opponent off center," she assured him, surveying her elders guilelessly. "Padawan Tachi is very, very good at it. Maybe she can show you how?"

His smile curdled into a private grimace. "Yes, I'm sure she could. And win, too." After all, she already had him _badly _off-balance.

Zhoa skipped in place. "I'll ask her!" And away she scampered, to make a special request for a demonstration, leaving her interlocutor to draw in a deep centering breath and compose himself for the trials ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Qui-Gon absolutely _trounced_ his favorite opponent that evening.

"I've not had the pleasure of instilling so much wisdom in one fell swoop since my former padawan was a wee lad with round wide eyes like a foxill kit," the tall Jedi master observed, mellow voice redolent of self-satisfaction.

"I do not, and have _never_ resembled a foxill," Obi-Wan harrumphed, tossing his towel aside with a disgusted flick of the wrist.

"I refer to Feemor, of course, not to you," Qui-Gon corrected him. "In your case, wisdom had to be doled out in increments proportionate to the recipient's limited docility."

"Convenient, that demand did not surpass the shallow reservoirs of _supply."_

The Jedi master's answering chuckle was dry and dangerous. "If only you possessed the same unflagging stamina as your wit, Obi-Wan… you might have performed better tonight."

"Ha." The young Knight slumped onto a bench and gathered his discarded cloak and tunics into a small bundle. "I'm not the one who sat at ease in the Marthusian dynastic palace while his _mission partner_ tramped all over the steppes in search of their star-forsaken guru and his fanatical devotees. Nor did I hobnob with the warden on Yammutz, eating _sand-cookies,_ while my colleague managed a full-scale sabotage and security breach. And I shan't even mention the speeder bike incident."

"The prerogatives of age," his mentor blithely retorted, crossing both arms over a broad chest dusted with grey hair.

"You mean the _debility_ of age. I suspect you couldn't have kept up with me."

But Qui-Gon was not to be so easily twitted. "I kept up with you quite well this evening," he smirked, clipping his 'saber back in place at his belt.

"Yes, well." A short breath of frustration. "Perhaps I'll take up Makashi again."

They proceeded through the sparring arena's doors at a leisurely stroll. "Now, now. There is no call for hasty decisions founded on a single afternoon's distraction."

"I'm not distracted."

The older man's eyes twinkled with a knowing light. "You are a terrible liar, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon deftly blocked the corridor, thinly bearded chin jutting stubbornly.

His former student yielded with poor grace. "Fine. I … ran into Siri today. Actually, I was lured into playing Push-feather with Feld's padawan and her classmates… and there she was. We were." A deep line appeared between his brows. "And she, ah, _reigned victorious _too. To the great amusement of all present."

"Alas." The Jedi master's barely suppressed chuckle was no great comfort to his peeved companion. "Publicly humiliated, twice in one day. You have a tragedian's flair – I've always maintained so."

Obi-Wan loosened the band that held his hair back and shook the damp mane free. "I need a shower," he proclaimed dully, trudging forward into the changing rooms.

The tall man touched his shoulder in mute solidarity as he shouldered past. "It is better to center upon what _is_ than what _is not,"_ came the quiet words of counsel.

A thin and rueful smile. "…Yes, Master."

* * *

"It is of paramount importance to center upon what _can be, _rather than merely what _is,"_ Yan Dooku mused, swirling the luminous meniscus of wine in the bottom of his priceless cut-crystal hock glass. "Present circumstance constitutes but a thin veneer upon the true depth of reality."

Obi-Wan meanwhile considered the dejarik board with all the cool abstraction of a master tactician. The present contest had been played, sporadically, for nigh on eight months now. "So long as one does not grow vertiginous, gazing down the bottomless well of possibility." He made a judicious move, one meant to resemble a feint.

One of Dooku's silver brows rose. "That won't do, my boy. I see right through you." He leaned back in his seat, emptied his cup, and studied the board intently.

His guest reached across the narrow table and poured again for both of them – filling his own glass only halfway. The Sentinel's cellar was extensive, and stocked with exquisite specimens of the vintner's craft, but he had no mind to indulge himself _too_ freely; not that a Jedi really stood in much danger of inebriation, so long as he was mindful – but a certain ingrained asceticism forbade him venture far past the act of _sampling._

The older man chuckled at his abstemiousness, glittering deep set eyes never leaving the piebald playing field between them. "We grow in the Force by pushing our innate boundaries," he observed, taking the decanter up again and filling Obi-Wan's glass to the brim. "And yours are, if I may say so, further afield than you would wish to admit."

The young Knight frowned over that subtle imprecation of his honor, but did not allow himself to be pushed off-center as he had during the afternoon's play session. He and Dooku were too finely balanced a pair, where such sparring was concerned. The Shadow's tendon-knotted hand hovered briefly over the board, then waved a reserved piece into play, a double headed gorgodon appearing in the center of the chequered rings, encircled by stilted walls of darkness and light.

His opponent smiled openly, a fierce delight rising within him. When all was said and done, Dooku – cunning strategist, peerless schemer, master of legerdemain though he might be- would _always_ in the final resort rely upon sheer domination, the duelist's confidence in his superior _skill. _Obi-Wan pushed his sacrificial victim forward, with a wry twist of the mouth.

"Surely you can do better," the Sentinel chided him, amicably allowing the gorgodon to impose several brutal atrocities upon his foe's foremost gladiator. The dejarik set was an ancient one, and not outfitted with the modern and more fastidious graphic limitations suited to Core –World effete sensibilities..

At which point the opposing side's humblest pawn executed a classic coup de grace, backstabbing the tyrant from behind –as it were – and neatly locking the entire strife-fretted board into an incontrovertible checkmate. Obi-Wan lifted his glass in full salute and drained its heady contents in one long draught.

"Stars' end," the Sentinel drawled, his gracious half-smile of surrender not quite mirrored in his eyes, which conveyed a kindling surprise that he had been beaten - and soundly.

They pushed their chairs back from the table, stretching out two pairs of booted legs beneath.

"You were saying, Master?"

"I was _saying,"_ the revered senior Jedi continued, seamlessly picking up the thread of his discourse, "that the present situation in the Rims only appears to be an effect of encroaching chaos. The facile explanation that pirates and territorial warlords have simply been stirred to greater boldness by Hutt conspiracy is a convenient one, and no doubt attracts great sympathy among those truly responsible."

"Those truly responsible…?"

Dooku was warming to his subject now. "Opportunistic rapine feeds upon the weakness of a decaying system, much as carrion birds follow a wounded beast. The Republic is to blame for its own decay."

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably. "You refer to corruption…in the judicial system?"

His host snorted contemptuously. "I refer to corruption at every level. The Senate has lost its spine – mercantile interests like the Trade Federation rule half the delegations' policy, while a sniveling convocation of cowards wish to reduce the commonwealth to mob rule – a petty tyranny of the masses. We stand at a crossroads of corporate power and raw demagoguery. The fraying edges are merely symptomatic."

"You think the Order's resources are squandered on peacekeeping in the Rims?"

"Squandered upon catering to the Senate's histrionic whining, perhaps," the Sentinel replied, coldly. "Darkness threatens to overwhelm this Republic which has stood for a thousand generations, and we waste our efforts upon border skirmishes. The true threat festers within."

"There have been other epochs in history when – "

"Do not throw trifling chronicleer's anecdotes at me, my friend. This crisis is unprecedented. It will take great courage – and great daring – to oppose the impending slide into barbarity."

"Surely the Jedi have always stood as a bulwark against such evil," Obi-Wan protested. "No matter how dire the outlook."

"The best among us have, yes." Dooku's grey eyes were partially hooded, gazing into past and future, along the endless asymptotes of destiny. "The _best_ always have." He fixed his visitor with a penetrating stare, one that branded its object with a high and demanding regard.

The younger man remained silent.

"It is incumbent upon one generation to teach the next… and sometimes the next after that. And when such portents of disaster manifest themselves, then it also behooves those with great experience to point the way to those who come after."

"I value your insight, Master." A neutral, and politic reply.

But Dooku's thin lips merely curved into a dryly amused smile. "Not well enough yet, I think. But there is time." He crossed one leg over the opposite knee, one arm draped elegantly over the chair's sturdy curve. "And I still have my honor to redeem." He gestured to the dejarik board, where the shimmering carnage of their last spectacular stand-off still cluttered the motley game-field.

"It would be my pleasure, as always," Obi-Wan replied, with a gracious dip of his head.

The Sentinel's commlink chimed. "Your pardon," he said, rising and making a short retreat into the adjacent chamber.

When he returned a few moments later, his expression was grave. "You must forgive me; the Council has been called to an emergency session." His expression hardened. "An assassination in the Legislative district – that minority faction of the Senate which is still sober at this late hour is in an uproar."

The younger Jedi made his elder a deep bow and took his leave, the Shadow striding purposefully beside him until they parted ways at the nearest swift tube.

* * *

He was doomed – by the capricious whim of fate, or else the mysterious will of the Force, which spared none of its servants his fair share of difficulty – to run into Siri again.

"I'm sorry; I'll wait for the next lift." He stepped backward from the burnished door panels, heart thudding against his ribs.

But of course that would be to admit there was a _problem,_ and Siri Tachi did not admit to weakness of any kind.

"No – don't." She held the doors ajar with the Force, proud and defiant.. He blinked two or three times and then acquiesced, against his better judgment.

The whole compartment bore her elusive signature – mandrangea blossoms, crisp linen, the warm animal scent of flesh and blood, the taste of Dooku's exotic wine blossoming upon his tongue again, the elixir of some fruit from a forgotten paradise.. They stood four scant paces apart, balanced precariously over a forbidden chasm.

They were sealed in at close quarters for a timeless stretch of seconds, the carriage vibrating subtly beneath them as it descended toward the main mezzanine. Obi-Wan pressed his back against the inner wall, cloak drawn tight about his shoulders. Siri's gaze remained locked on the reflective panels to her left. The chime sounded softly as they reached their destination.

He held the doors shut with an upraised hand. "Siri…."

Her eyes were glossed with bright liquid fire. "Not now. Please."

"I'm sorry."

"Then get out of my way." There was no _Master Kenobi_ here, he noted.

"Forgive me if I cause you _pain." _ The wine was sitting uneasily in his belly now, its taste sour upon his tongue.

She lifted her chin, brows quirking together. A single droplet clung to her white-gold lashes. "…That's not … it's different now that you're… It's just different. That's all."

He bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

Siri stamped one foot, impatient. "Stop apologizing, for stars' sakes." She swallowed. "I hate it when – "

"I only wished to –"

"I need to join my master," she interrupted, sharply. "There was an assassin probe at the dinner she attended tonight – one of the Senators is dead. From an influential planet – or an affluent one, anyway. It's making a stink."

The reminder of _duty_ silenced all objection but that which howled silently in the Force.

Siri's perfect mouth tightened. "Let me through, please."

He hesitated, and then yielded, a breath of regret wafting impalpably between them.

She moved toward him, head bowed. "I'm sorry, too, _ben'ke."_

His hand strayed toward hers, but she started away, and hurried on without looking back, stride lengthening as her steps carried her toward the hangar bay on the south side. For a moment, he was seized by an irrational impulse to run after her- perhaps offer to fly her there personally – but _duty_ kept him riveted to the spot, anchored in place by binding public oath and sacred private devotion.

It was better to center upon what _was, _ than what was not, nor ever could be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 4**

There is no unilateral agreement among the sages about the nature of dreams: some claim that they represent the unappeased desires of waking life; others disparage them as no more than accidental collages of memory and imagination; some few grant to them Unifying vision, making of them as it were a scrying glass in which the Force reveals its mysteries under the pomp and guise of archetypes, wide parabolas of allegory. Certainly it would take a lifetime's meticulous compilation of evidence to prove or disprove any one of these theories, even were it possible to single out one point of view among many as the exclusive truth.

But a Jedi has manifold other duties to occupy the allotted span of his life, even if he occasionally suffers an inexplicable recurrent dream.

_There are unfamiliar voices in the front entry hall, the one with the glittering tree-shaped lamp and the holo-picture of a triple moonrise over shadow-striped orchard fields. The voices are deep male ones, and strange to him. And with the voices comes a dreadful wave of something – of fear, or sorrow, or other things he cannot understand, sweet and bitter and strong and painful. The wave rolls through him, through everything, changing the world to a twilight realm like the land in the holo-pic: all sharp contrasts, dark and light, good and bad, home and outside, known and unknown, present and future._

_All the grownup voices he knows well, those he loves, are subtly edged, rasping and soft with difficult emotion. And he understands without being told that this warping of the world concerns him, that a cataclysmic event is poised upon his horizon, that this is end and beginning at once._

_He runs._

_There are stairs, and passages, and places he knows of, small places where he could hide. And there are windows and balconies, and beyond them there is a garden and a wall and fields, paths and roads and a wide green world parsed into tidy geometries, into tamed and groomed paradises where Light shines and heliotropes dance in its effulgence and the wind never ceases to blow high in the cerulean vault. _

_He runs without stopping, through all his favorite haunts and down the stone-paved path between the drooping trees, and the gate crashes open before him at the bidding of his frantic will, but…_

_He has been anticipated. The way to his private sanctuary is blocked, by a pair of tall, scuffed boots with many buckles. Behind these enormous feet and legs drapes a heavy curtain of cloth, dusty at the hem, but thick and tightly woven of soft cloth. He skids to halt, wondering, and looks up at the apparition even as it kneels down to bring its face level with his. _

_He has never seen a person with a striped face before, or with things like that sprouting from his head. It is a marvel to behold, and he is man enough of the world to guess at this stranger's port of origin. "Are you from a moon?" He has an uncle that lives on one of the moons. Maybe this is he._

"_No," the foreigner chuckles. "Much further than that, I'm afraid. Where are you from?"_

_A fair question. The interloper is not frightening at this proximity. He points backward at the house's massive edifice, his native frame of reference. _

"_I see," the visitor responds, nodding his astonishing head very seriously. "Suppose you show me about? I am new to your home, and I would very much like an introduction." He rises, fluid as water spilling uphill, and holds out a truly enormous, muscular hand. The nails are short, the skin is golden-hued, and there are hard calluses on the finger pads. Tentatively, he extends his own much smaller, smoother hand, his comparatively tiny fingers brushing against the stranger's warm palm and then clasping tightly as the other's grip closes reassuringly about his own._

_And the spark of fire that travels between them, within them, is like nothing he has ever felt before. He looks up, startled to discover that this complete Other is - among all the beings he has ever met, even she whom he loves above all others – the most like him._

_They both belong to the Light._

"_Come," the stranger says, and he obeys, walking on unsteady legs up the familiar path, giddy with the sudden expanding of his universe, with a joy verging on terror. _

Rubbing the hard silt of sleep from his eyes, and the cobweb vestiges of recollection from his mind, Obi-Wan contemplatively turned one hand before his face, noting the calluses, the tiny scars left by an occasional mishap in the dojo, the knotting of tendons beneath faintly freckled skin. The room was awash in the palest radiance cast by a small nightlamp. He doused the tiny lantern with a flick of his wrist, and rolled off his hard sleeping palette with a stifled groan, adding a laconic and condemning remark upon the early hour.

And yet Qui-Gon had _still _ managed to beat him to the punch, as it were. He beat a glum staccato upon the closed 'fresher door. "There's a pathetic life form out here, waiting his turn."

Perhaps he should consider requesting private quarters, after all.

"You would be _here, _ drinking my tea, all the time anyhow," the older man answered his cantankerous thought. The door swished open to reveal an impeccably groomed and undeniably alert Qui-Gon, eyes twinkling merrily at his young companion's expense.

"I was about to seek release from my burdens elsewhere," the latter person grumbled. "Perhaps among the bushes on the balcony."

"Court disaster at your own peril, brat," the older man quipped, striding happily into the common room. "Oh – and get a move on, would you? We've been summoned to the Council chambers."

What? "At this hour?" Obi-Wan peered round the doorframe. "The assassination last night in the Legislative district?"

The Jedi master's brows rose in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I have my sources." He snapped the panel closed with smug satisfaction and considered his own reflection's bleary mien. A Council summons of such urgency meant immediate assignment. Releasing a long centering breath, he got down to business with practiced alacrity, girding himself inside and out for what might come – and wistfully relinquishing any attachment to the much-anticipated, and now doomed, _furlough._

* * *

"I do hope this isn't going to be another _clandestine_ mission," Obi-Wan remarked as they ascended the South tower, surrounded by the burnished splendor of four concave walls and a blank control panel responsive only to Force manipulation.

"We come to serve," Qui-Gon blandly replied, studiously avoiding both his companion's gaze and that of his slightly blurred reflection upon the lift's opposite wall.

He was answered with a derogatory snort. "I'm drawing the line this time. I will not consent to impersonate any planetary ruler's Royal Consort, ever again, from this day forth."

"I was under the impression that the Dowager found you less than satisfactorily consenting even at the time."

Obi-Wan's dull effigy shifted its contours, reflecting a wry shrug. "My former master always counseled me to know my own limits and to respect them."

"Ah, alas. If only every sentient being in the galaxy was likewise aware of your limits, Obi-Wan, we would be spared a great deal of trouble and the occasional scandal."

"Scoff all you like," his younger companion amiably retorted. "I've made a resolution and I'm holding fast to it. Next time there is a compromising alias to be assumed, it will fall upon your capable shoulders."

"Nonsense. I'm far too old. Such burdens are meant to be delegated to the younger generation. And that means you – unless you choose the path of greatest expedience and save yourself by taking on a padawan of your own."

It proved a sour note within their harmonious discord; Obi-Wan fell silent when he ought, by rights, to have fired back some outrageous impertinence. The tall man finally looked at him directly, curious gaze rebuffed by mental shields as impenetrable as the ablest Shadow's.

But now was not the time.

The tall man folded his hands into wide cloak sleeves as their carriage drew to a shuddering stop at the spire's pinnacle. "Shall we?"

* * *

Sunlight had not yet breached night's high ramparts, leaving the lofty Council chamber still swathed in deepest purple shadow. Soft lamps spilled tongues of amber and gold upon the floor's inlaid mandala, the winged sword and the lotus of contemplation surrounding the Force's perfect, empty circle, the omnipresent center of both universe and self. Only a handful of Councilors were present at this emergency session, Adi Gallia among them.

"Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan," the beautiful Tholothian addressed the newcomers, far less formally than her wont. "A matter has arisen which demands immediate redress."

"One of the Senators has been murdered," Obi-Wan succinctly supplied, sparking a frisson around the chamber's perimeter.

Adi's well-defined brows arched upward in surprise. "You are well informed. News has, thankfully, not yet reached the holonet. I saw to that myself."

Qui-Gon inclined his head respectfully. To thwart the media, through aggressive negotiations or whatever means needful, was a feat worthy of inclusion in the Order's annals – and they all knew it. His colleague received the mute praise graciously, her headress's ornamental tails bobbing as she returned the courtesy.

Mace Windu, solemn in his wide seat, cut to the chase. "It was a well planned assassination; had not Master Gallia been present at the function, the droid would have certainly escaped undetected. As it is.."

"We have its remains here in the Temple." Adi's fingers slipped momentarily to the hilt of her 'saber, her cerulean eyes sparkling with a rare fire. "Or at least most the scraps. The analysis droids are hard at work upon it as we speak… but at least one relevant fact has already come to light."

Qui-Gon exchanged a fleeting glance of curiosity with his comrade. What piece of tech trivia, however fascinating, could justify rousting both of them from their much-deserved rest and sending them out again on an urgent assignment?

"The cybernetics driver inside the probe unit is built on an ionite platform – one matching the minerals exported from Niffrendi. If you recall?"

Of course they did; the mission had been nothing if not memorable. A sparsely populated system in the far Rims, Niffrendi had been illegally trading valuable resources for tax-free profit. While the Trade Federation had predictably enough played middleman to the transaction, more worrisome yet was the discovery that all the blackmarket ionite had been funneled directly to a cutting edge armaments corporation.

"The assassination weapon hails from Baktoid Armories?"

Mace grunted. "So we must assume."

"And we are to investigate?" It was a natural inference - often enough a follow up mission was assigned to the same Jedi team that undertook the initial operation; such continuity was a distinct advantage.

"No," the Korun replied, surprising both men in the room's dimly lit center. He steepled his fingers. "There is another complication. The deceased Senator's homeworld has requested Jedi aid in keeping the peace during the new election. They will nominate and vote upon a replacement for Senator Mushibi within the next standard fiveday. Due to the current political climate, the local government anticipates trouble. It is hoped a Republic presence will soothe frayed nerves – the system is historically quite traditional-minded and supportive of the Order."

Obi-Wan considered this soberly. "And there is reason to suppose the assassination was ordered by someone from the same world?"

Mace's dark eyes glittered. "It is distinctly possible. It would not be the first time a vacancy has been forcibly created by those greedy for power and influence."

The young Knight nodded his agreement. Suspicion fell first and foremost upon those who might potentially assume the dead Senator's place on Coruscant – and the vast wealth of connections and privileges that entailed.

"You are best suited to such a task, of all those available on the rosters," Adi added, apologetically.

"We understand," Qui-Gon assured her. His record as a diplomat, especially in potentially volatile situations, was sterling – and his experience extensive. "To which system are we headed?"

Mace's penetrating gaze lighted on Obi-Wan momentarily before returning to the older man. "Stewardship of Terajon," he replied, quite evenly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 5**

They were provided with an unpretentious Republic ambassadorial shuttle as means of conveyance. Grateful that the vessel was captained by a professional from the diplomatic corps, thus relieving the Jedi from the burden of navigation and piloting, Qui-Gon settled into the aft passenger compartment and stretched his long legs across its narrow aisle. Long interstellar journeys were part and parcel of a Jedi's life. He by now was completely inured to the inevitable tedium.

Obi-Wan on the other hand… perhaps not so much.

"We are not playing sabaac," the latter person tersely informed his traveling companion as he took up position opposite. "I need to meditate."

The older man snorted gently. "You need some tea."

Chagrin coiled mutely in Obi-Wan's slow exhalation. The young Jedi raised a hand and carded fingers through his long mane of chestnut hair. "I suppose tea would also be salutary," he admitted, ruefully.

Qui-Gon slipped his battered sabaac deck from its pouch and idly shuffled the cards. "It is unfortunate that our respite was so brief."

"Did we have one? I must have missed it."

The Jedi master dexterously cut the deck and reshuffled. "You must be more mindful of the moment."

His companion watched the sabaac cards's peregrination from one hand to the other in a rapidly cascading bridge. "You want to _size me up," _he accused his mentor. "I know what you're doing."

The tall Jedi favored him with a guileless look.

"I _did_ attend to your lectures, Master. _There is no better diagnostic tool for character and mood than a game of chance, Padawan. One can learn much about one's opponent simply by playing at dice or cards."_

Qui-Gon tapped the edges of his pile into rigid symmetry. "Surely by now, my friend, I do not require such crude devices to know whether and when you are about to launch into unrestrained brooding."

"So it's a distract and redirect gambit," the younger man concluded. "I'm finding some tea."

He disappeared into the tiny salon pod adjacent, errant on his self-appointed quest. Qui-Gon merely rearranged the voluminous folds of his cloak and started dealing out two full hands, laying his friend's cards out in a neat fan, face-down upon the unoccupied acceleration couch. There _was_ no better diagnostic tool than a game of chance, and there was little harm in testing the waters before broaching a difficult subject, especially where Obi-Wan was concerned.

The disgruntled Knight returned a few moments later with two standard-issue ceramplast shipboard mugs in hand. "Arjees," he announced, handing over a steaming cup. "Of dubious origin, dubious freshness, and indubitably bad quality." He took a tentative sip, pulling an expressive face. "Ah. It's a wonder the Republic ever makes diplomatic headway if we serve this swill to guests."

"It's for the crew." Qui-Gon swallowed a bitter mouthful and set his serving aside. "Hm."

His former apprentice levitated the proffered cards into one hand, pretending surprise. "What's this?"

"A crude diagnostic tool. First hand – your turn. Will you pass, draw, shift, or fold?"

Obi-Wan disguised his budding interest for the game by taking a long draught of the dreadful caff. "I'm upping the ante," he slyly decided, fishing several dataries out of his own belt pouches and dropping them dramatically into the hand and sabaac pots.

"That is unlike you."

"If you intend to plumb my depths, Master, I intend to collect handsomely for the inconvenience. Besides, you owe me forty and ten from last mission."

They chuckled a bit over that, sliding naturally into bantering good humor as a veil over their true intentions. Mental shields slammed into place behind smiling exteriors; Force-enhanced intuition set to work upon the mysterious currents of Chance, which did not truly exist.

* * *

They were evenly divided – three and three hands, wins proportionate to losses upon either side, when Qui-Gon dealt out the seventh and final round. "Forfeit now, brat; Fate has decided against you."

"I don't think so."

"Well? Draw, shift or fold?"

"Pass."

"Again – you are not up to standard today, Obi-Wan."

A smug lift of the brows. "If you think _that, _ your vaunted diagnostic powers must be subject to the depredations of age."

"Hm. I think I too shall pass."

"Well then."

"Indeed."

They laid their final hands out with a simultaneous and eerily similar flourish – only to discover that their mutual confidence was both well-grounded and totally empty. Obi-Wan displayed a Pure Sabaac, flushed out in all its orderly victorious splendor… but Qui-Gon had been in possession of the Idiot's Array, a fair match to the highest hand, by the game's ancient rules.

"_Blast it!"_

The Jedi master swept the deck into a tidy pile and appropriated the contents of both pots to himself.

"You haven't won," his young counterpart objected.

"No – but I still haven't adjusted to the notion of you having your own discretionary fund. Don't worry, I'll keep it safe." He pocketed the coinage and leaned back against the padded bench. "Besides, I've achieved my objective."

"Really."

Ignoring the sarcastic lilt of his friend's voice, Qui-Gon smiled and re-crossed his ankles. The Force thrummed consonantly between them, and even a superstitious Ryn employing the cards for divination purposes would say that the moment was auspicious. He opted for a bold direct approach. "Since it is the will of the Force that we travel to your homeworld - " he began.

"Coruscant is my homeworld," Obi-Wan quietly replied, in a tone that did _not_ invite further negotiation.

Perhaps not so auspicious. "Your birth-world, then."

A slight shrug, communicating bland detachment. Qui-Gon continued cautiously, mindful that he trod on thin ice. "Some three years ago, under different circumstances," - he had been the _master_ at that time, endowed with full authority in the disposition of his apprentice's education – "I made a promise to a certain lady." He paused, gauging the effect of his words.

But Obi-Wan was determined to catch him off balance. "I met her already, Master. At that same time."

It was a span of weeks they did not speak of, the days antecedent to Tal Uvain's tragic death, to the mightiest rift in their often tempestuous relationship, to a time of dark trial for both. Much that had transpired then was better left in the obscurity of unexhumed recollection. Either man shifted uneasily, mutual focus yearning to return to _center- _to the present moment or the universal current, to the sheltering wings of the Living or Unifying Force.

But now that they had started, they had best finish "You _met_ her?"

"Well." Obi-Wan's mouth quirked into a wry half-twist. "If you can call an spaceport tête-à-tête lasting three standard minutes a proper _meeting."_

Three minutes. In a bustling spaceport hangar. There was something verging on… obscene indifference… in the scenario thus evoked. The Jedi master frowned.

"Here is your opportunity to amend the unfortunate circumstances of that encounter."

But his friend's blue gaze abruptly speared far into some abstract distance. "I don't see –"

"I am certain she wished for something more _personal."_

"I am equally certain," Obi-Wan shot back, "that there is little real good to be achieved through the cultivation of such a connection." The cool civility of his tone was counterbalanced by a warm flush rising in his face.

"That is rather unchivalrous of you, " the older man reasoned with him. "You are _not_ yourself this morning."

The young Knight fixed him with a look so polite it burned. Embers of some inchoate emotion flared and were smothered, deep in the Force. "Then to what end do you propose this visit? Surely the lady wishes to meet with _myself- _ and if I am not he, then the assignation is pointless._"_

Qui-Gon ground his teeth and forcibly relinquished his desire to _thrash_ sense into the boy. Man. Callow fool. Now was clearly _not_ the time to address the issue… and he knew from long experience that he would make no headway at all by continuing to hammer at the gates of his friend's resolve, once they were barred by obstinacy and misplaced conviction. There was no route into that guarded citadel via aggressive negotiation; he would simply have to bide his time and wait patiently.

A solution would present itself.

* * *

Briefing materials proved a less perilous subject of discussion.

"I really don't see what motive anyone would have for killing Senator Mushibi," Obi-Wan observed, halfway through a lengthy perusal of the relevant files. "He was a decent orator."

Qui-Gon raised his brows. "And lack of eloquence is the foremost offense which sentient beings may cause to one another," he dryly appended.

His former student glanced up, darkly amused. "Well, _I've_ heard speakers whose rhetoric and delivery has kindled murderous urges within me."

"You scandalize me, Obi-Wan."

The younger man's eyes twinkled in challenge. "Admit it, Master: on Collinquia, when that dreadful windbag from the Banking Guild stood to –"

"Enough, enough, I cede: bad public speaking is sufficient to inspire homicide. But I agree with you in this much: Sentor Mushibi seems to have fulfilled his office honorably and competently enough. There is very little exceptional in his record at all."

His companion propped one booted foot against the bulkhead, scowling contemplatively. "Or perhaps that _is the_ reason for his demise. He wasn't progressive enough for his constituency's taste? The reform party on-planet has been enjoying a marked rise in membership. They may be poised for a coup of sorts. _Eliminate_ the incumbent, rig the planetary election in their favor, and have their man sent up to Coruscant in time for….what?"

"That," Qui-Gon replied, "is likelier to be revealed when we have a better sense of the planetary political situation. Unless we discover upon investigation that Mushibi cherished a secret and more personal enmity."

Obi-Wan pulled up a star-map on his compact projector. Populated systems in the Mid Rim clustered densely around delineated hyperlanes; names of sectors, subdistricts and astronavigational polar coordinates fanned out from the tightly packed center. He enlarged the hovering image and then enlarged again. Somewhere in the midst of the jumble a tiny speck glimmered, its standard abbreviation limned in glowing blue aurebesh letters: _Stew. –jon._

"It's quite a small planet, really," he observed, resting his chin on one loosely balled fist.

"But affluent, and respected. Terajon predated the Republic's expansion into the Mid Rim; it was among the first planetary sovereignties to join the new unified government, and its policy remains a signpost or precedent for other old-blood communities in the sector. What such a small world does _politically _is far more important, symbolically, than its modern economic or trade status."

The young Jedi watched the shimmering speck rotate slowly above his hand-held projector plate, one jewel among a gaudy necklace of thousands. Like cut stones compacted into an intricate wall, the removal of one infinitesimal part could precipitate a collapse of the whole. The key was to understand where the _shatterpoints_ of a unity lay – had that not been the subject of Master Windu's lecture to senior padawans on more than one occasion? Who was to say where the keystones of the galaxy's tenuous stability were located? A cursory examination would point to the Outer Rim, perpetually embroiled in chaos as it was – or else to the Core, where policy and haute couture were continually re-invented- or to the fringe groups, the mercantile guilds, the banking organizations, the marginal crime syndicates and power networks that traced an invisible web over the whole vast expanse.

But why not the reliable, the positively _staid_ middle, where prosperity was commonplace, lifeways all but fossilized in the longevity of complacent tradition? Foster discontent in the stable _suburbs_ of the sprawling pangalactic megalopolis, and you would undermine the Republic's unremarkable but solid foundations.

Maybe Dooku had a point after all. Trouble in the Rims was nothing but a smokescreen.

"A credit for your thoughts."

He started out of his reverie and offered Qui-Gon a mischievous smile. "I'm tripling my rates, to recoup recent gambling losses."

"I should never have introduced you to Dex, I see. Or the Derridas, for that matter."

"It is too late, now, Master. I'm an irredeemable reprobate. Which," he added brightly, "will doubtless prove an advantage, since it seems we will be hobnobbing with _politicians_ yet again."

The Jedi master inclined his head. "Alas, that does seem to be our lot in life. I shall submit a formal request to the Council, for some variation in our routine. We will petition for an assignment involving a rabid rancor stampede, or an emergency relief effort to some subdeveloped world."

"There's no need to be _uncivilized."_

Qui-Gon shook his head. "Ah, but that is the complicating factor, my fastidious young friend. Civilization seems to involve a good deal of squabbling and killing one another, does it not?"

A snort. "That _does_ seem to be the problem." And what a problem it was. Obi-Wan shut down the holographic star map and tucked the compact device into a belt pouch, deriving a scant and dark-edged comfort from the knowledge that certain difficulties were beyond all power of mortal redress. A Jedi could only do what was possible in the present moment, by the will and help of the Force, come what may.

In the meantime, "…What about another game of sabaac?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

"It only became a Stewardship upon its annexation into the Republic five centuries ago; until that point in time, the world was a united planetary monarchy. The reigning king abdicated his throne as a grand gesture, hoping to consolidate popular support for the democratic model – apparently there has been a parliamentary system in place ever since, a ruling body which considers itself to be holding the sovereign power in trust for… I don't know. Some future resumption of kingship, I suppose."

Qui-Gon followed his suddenly garrulous companion down the ramp. "From which you infer…?"

"That representative government here, while conforming to basic democratic principles, is still a function of the patrician class and is predicated on more or less feudal sensibilities. Much like the government of Serreno, actually."

"A whole planet of traditionalists," the Jedi master remarked, dryly, striding onto the rain-slicked docking platform. "And here is the traditional welcome party."

A costly, though not ostentatious, aircar hovered discreetly a short distance away. Beside its burnished black chassis stood a robed official, two electro-pike wielding bodyguards in cape and elaborate helmet, and a pair of administrative assistants.

"That would be Prime Minister Ichiru, in person," Obi-Wan swiftly concluded.

"Hm." The tall man hesitated fractionally. "Keep your cowl up and stay a pace behind me."

Qui-Gon was never one to stand on such formalities, much less an outward show of hierarchy. His younger counterpart complied with the request immediately, implicit trust rendering explanation needless. There was a reason; it would be made clear later. A soft drizzle fell upon them as they crossed the wet tarmac, and made a deep double bow to the waiting premier and her retinue.

"Daijon Jinn," the elegant woman greeted them, eyes flicking toward the hooded figure to the Jedi master's right before lighting upon the clear superior of the pair. "Terajon thanks you for your assistance, and welcomes you."

"We come to serve, Daijon Ichiru."

"Please. The electoral college is still in session; I pray your immediate presence, if you are not too wearied from your journey. One or two of our voting citizens have an intractable temperament; I fear that trouble is brewing already."

"Of course."

The security men mounted escort swoops, while the two prim secretaries slipped in beside the aircar's pilot. Minister Ichiru and the Jedi were left to share the spacious back compartment, an open carriage protected from wind and rain by a state of the art deflection field. The silver-haired woman sat demurely upon one wide bench, smoothing her embroidered ceremonial gown with both hands, her eyes wandering over the small spaceport's cluster of hangars and concourses, upward to the cloud mantled sky where a single intrepid raptor hung pendant, aloft upon a high current, watchful and serene.

"What sort of trouble do you anticipate, precisely?" Qui-Gon queried. "The more specific details you can provide, the better."

"Ah, naturally." A pause, in which the faintest breath of despondency fluttered in the Force. "Daijon Mushibi was… a good friend of my family. A man of integrity and sound judgment, neither gullible nor a cynic. " The premier folded her hands upon her knees. "He was, if I may express my private opinion, the _only_ man for his job. Every other willing candidate is partisan, likely to precipitate a public outcry from either of the extremist factions."

Obi-Wan stirred, but remained entrenched in his anonymity. The older Jedi spoke for him. "The political climate here on Terajon is polarized, then?"

They passed the spaceport precinct and dipped lower, hugging the gentle contours of a green and rolling landscape, one terraced and groomed to perfection by centuries' patient work. Lowland mist clung to the valleys; orchard studded slopes nestled small settlements between their arms. "Yes," the minister sighed, after a few moments. "Like all the republic, our leadership lately vacillates between the seduction of centralized power and an unwholesome sycophancy to corporate interests. We are enmeshed in the same corrosive debates that plague the galactic Senate. It was not so when I took office some twenty years ago."

"Much can change, and quickly," the tall Jedi observed, gravely.

"Mushibi was a member of the last generation to receive a truly liberal education," Minister Ichiru continued. "Our younger citizens are victims of the pan-galactic educational reform bills of thirty years ago… I suppose the Jedi Order underwent a similar crisis?"

Qui-Gon inclined his head. "No; the Order carries on much as it always has. Our teaching prerogatives are not subject to the whims of a legislative body."

"Nor are you subject to taxation, the indefatigable henchman of politicians everywhere. Terajon is affluent, even by Core standards- but we do not possess the population base to sustain the punitive fines for non-compliance. In some sense, our planet is owned by the Senate on Coruscant. It was Senator Mushibi's role to alleviate the burden of such dependency. It is doubtful whether another exists who may take his place."

"But there are many vying for his position."

A grim nod. "Yes, indeed there are."

* * *

The Jedi were afforded a private observation balcony in the rotunda. Deferent clerks took their rain-spattered robes and stood sentry at the outer door; Minister Ichiru took her leave with a gracious apology. "I am expected to preside over this absurd effrontery."

Obi-Wan leaned over the parapet, surveying the tiered rows of local respresentatives. "It's quite an assembly – nearly as large as the Senate."

"Yes… apparently the land is still held in massive estates, headed by a hereditary owner. Every land-holding family is required to send one member as voting representative of those living under their patronage. Very feudal, as you put it."

"So these are the patriarchs… I'd estimate nearly a thousand. And, let's see…" The young Jedi scrolled through information on the inset datascreen in his chair's armrest. "The inhabitable continents are small, and sparsely populated – hardly any large cities but the capitol and one or two trading centers… but even so, that means estates upward of fifty-thousand square klicks."

"Some are larger, many smaller. A good deal of land is unincorporated into the system; arable regions account for the greatest number of individual land holdings. But, yes. These are in effect the lords of the realm."

Obi-Wan spared him a sidelong smirk. "And no better or worse than they should be."

A heated debate was breaking out below; shouted objections and dramatic hand gestures abounded.

The Jedi Master busied himself with the roster of attendees to this session; his young companion leaned forward again, intrigued by the spectacle. "Should we make an appearance and scare them straight?"

"Not quite yet, I think. Let's get a feel for things first."

"Oh, I've got that. They've arranged themselves into besieged factions. Look – on the left are the progressives, who want sweeping reform and a more centralized administration. On the right we have the profiteering snivelers who eat crumbs from the Trade Federation's table. And that small section in the center is the reactionary alliance, who hearken back to the days of the Old Republic. They're all equally aggravated, though," he added, thoughtfully. "I wonder who's going to set fire to the powder keg?"

"The _intractable_ party Minister Ichiru mentioned, perhaps?"

The speaker's floor was presently occupied by a middle aged gentleman from an outlying land-holding. He stood erect in his small hover-pod, hands resting upon either hip. His garments were of simple enough design: knee-length tunic and soft trousers, a wide sash and cummerbund of office the only splash of color against steel-grey cloth. He tilted a neatly bearded chin upward stubbornly and cast a doleful look at the entire assembly.

"Prattle on all you like about _abolishing_ corrupt institutions," he snorted. "Not one of you has a proper _alternative_ to offer. And you shan't earn my vote on the strength of your verbal chicanery."

"He's mettlesome, all right." Obi-Wan smiled quietly to himself.

Voices shouted from all directions.

"Stand down, old man!"

"How long are you going to hold us hostage?"

"Oh come _off_ it, Tamasu!"

Qui-Gon continued rapidly scrolling through the roster.

The speaker passed a hand over his thinning silver thatch and then crossed his arms, legs planted in a battle stance. He was not of great stature, but built squarely and well, exuding the impression of a compact nerf bull pawing the turf with lowered horns. "Far be it from me to _inconvenience _ the march of progress." He turned to his other side. "Or of profit, as the case may be."

"I like him," Obi-Wan declared, sotto voce.

Qui-Gon's brows rose. "You would."

"Tamasu, please! We need a decision!"

But the subject of these piteous entreaties remained unmoved. "Then present me with a conscionable choice."

"You, Daijon!" a hothead in the back row hollered. "If you are so sanctimonious, show us how it's done! I'll nominate you myself!"

A round of sniggering laughter, a bare relief in the tense atmosphere.

But the butt of this joke only hunkered down further into obduracy. "What? My wife married an honest man. I'll not sully my honor in the brothel of politics. You keep your nomination and I'll keep my principles!"

"Apparently he's the swing vote," Qui-Gon observed.

"Apparently he's got a death wish," Obi-Wan dryly appended. "He'll be next on the hit list, I imagine."

"Hm."

The assembly erupted into a renewed and very vocal bout of hostility. The Jedi master leaned in next to his former apprentice. "Do you believe in coincidence?"

"Of course not, Master."

Qui-Gon tapped the datascreen between them. "I've found our recalcitrant friend on the roster."

Obi-Wan read the entry twice, and blinked. "Oh."

"Yes; those are much my own thoughts on the matter."

They sat in a mutually stunned silence for the remainder of the frustrating session.

* * *

Minister Ichiru threw her hands up in a muted expression of chagrin. "I've offered state security, upon more than one occasion, I assure you – but the old curmudgeon will have none of it. Don't waste your time upon a lost cause, Master Jedi."

Qui-Gon watched the assemblymen file out through the main portico into the fountained plaza . Aircars and more pretentious conveyances gathered at the margins to collect their passengers; householders and government staff milled about in bustling confusion.

"He may be indifferent to his own safety, but surely he would not be such a miser where hospitality is concerned."

The planetary premier scoffed humorously. "What? Do you plan to ask yourself to dinner?"

"I think I can arrange an invitation… and my instincts tell me that he has put himself in the path of an assassin. The next logical target for attack."

"Agreed, Daijon Jinn. Your presence at tomorrow's election will be most appreciated."

Qui-Gon's long shanks carried him across the courtyard at an easy loping gait. He found Obi-Wan loitering near the vehicle pool.

"He hasn't departed yet.. but I don't sense any immediate danger."

The tall man nodded. "Nor do I – but I have little doubt the afternoon's proceedings were under more than one form of surveillance. An assassin who has access to avante garde killer droids would find hacking into a security holo-cam mere child's play."

Obi-Wan concurred, silently. Security measures here in the planet's capitol were non-extant, compared to the strident protocols enforced on Coruscant. A technologically savvy and well-trained bounty hunter or private agent could infiltrate any number of points. His own Shadow's training suggested several feasible options for a clandestine _maneuver_ here – and with one native of this small world dead already, he had no cause to doubt the competency of their unknown opponent. "Are we to work in concert with the local police?"

The tall man shook his head, eyeing the overcast skies warily. "No. I think we should employ the direct approach."

"You mean-"

"We will discreetly accompany the likely target to his residence and provide our personal protection for the duration of this electoral process. I have a feeling the gentleman in question will also be able to provide _insight _into the broader situation."

Obi-Wan's mouth thinned in displeasure. He shifted on the spot, one hand resting upon his 'saber's hilt. "Of course we must thwart any further attacks, but is it truly necessary to –"

"Master Jedi!"

They pivoted on the spot, incipient private argument suspended by the demands of etiquette, and made the newcomer a respectful double bow.

The assemblyman returned the courtesy, regarding them closely with pale blue eyes wreathed in a lifetime of laugh-lines. The rising wind ruffled his wisping crown of short-cropped silver, tugged at his heavily woven overcoat. His gaze lingered upon the imposing Jedi master for a few critical moments before sliding over to Obi-Wan.

His face froze, a deep furrow appearing between suddenly beetled brows.

The first cold droplets dappled the marbled pavement between their feet.

Qui-Gon intervened smoothly. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Daijon Kenobi."


	7. Chapter 7

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

"The honor is mine," replied the man responsible for so much pique and discontent among his peers. "Daijon Ichiru has asked you to _protect_ me, I presume. Flattering that my simple and straightforward opinions merit the attention of special emissaries from Coruscant."

"Many points of view are rendered dangerous by their context, Daijon."

Terajon's resident maverick stared down the Order's most infamous rebel for a long minute. Obi-Wan stood by, watching the two senior men closely.

"If you will not accept our protection, may I ask your assistance? Your _perspective_ on the current political climate here would prove invaluable to us."

Tamasu Kenobi gave a snort of mild derision. "You want me to pontificate for your benefit? My wife Ue would not approve, I assure you."

But the Jedi master merely dipped his head, waiting patiently for his answer.

"Oh very well. But you'll have to come home with me; I'm not spending another moment here. I'll fetch my pilot." He bestowed another long and penetrating gaze upon Obi-Wan, who stoically withstood the scrutiny, hands folded into opposite sleeves, mouth determinedly shut.

Tamasu nodded to himself once or twice and then sighed, hurrying across the plaza at a slightly bow-legged, rolling pace.

"Master…"

Qui-Gon clapped his companion on the shoulder. "Good. We've been asked to dinner, I believe."

But the young Knight shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"I've work to do here." Obi-Wan swept a brusque hand upward at the stately bulk of the legislative building. "I'll check the security myself, and see if anyone's made progress back at the Old Folks Home."

The tall man raised his brows.

"The _Temple_, Master."

Qui-Gon exhaled, hooking both thumbs through his belt in exasperation. "I do not think our prospective hosts _bite."_

"I'm on assignment," came the terse rebuttal. "Not holiday. Besides, only one of us is required to conduct such an interview."

"Good. Then you can do it."

Shoulders and mental shields tautening another notch, Obi-Wan bristled. "With respect…_no."_ He made a very shallow bow and strode away, Force aura fretted with pensive fire.

The tall man chose to disregard the open insubordination. Protracted explanations and apologies could be deferred until later; they were, after all, on assignment. He turned on his heel and swept off in the opposite direction, tugging his cloak hood up against an abrupt downpour.

* * *

The private aircar was a luxury model, but easily a decade old. Qui-Gon stretched out his legs and considered his traveling companion. The man was close to his own age, he reflected, and possessed of stolid but healthy vitality. Fair of complexion, with what must have been fair hair bleached to premature white, Tamasu Kenobi returned his assessing gaze with unflustered amicability, arms folded across his chest and mouth quirking ironically at one corner.

It was a bit disconcerting, actually.

"So," the native of Terajon grunted after a long silence in which the car's efficient driver whisked them past the city limits and into the agrarian districts beyond. "This is about old Mushibi's death, is it not?"

There was little point in obfuscation. "Yes. Did you know him?"

"Oh, we met to discuss politics now and then. A good enough man, especially for an age such as this. He will be missed."

"We should like to prevent the loss of _other_ good men."

The hint was ignored, though a glitter in his interlocutor's eyes told Qui-Gon that the message was understood. "Are there others on this planet? Pray arrange an introduction…. But this is what so worries Daijon Ichiru? The threat of further assassinations? "

"She suspects conspiracy. Your world stands at the nexus of several opposing principalities. Mid Rim policy sets many trends within the Republic as a whole."

A shrewd chuckle. "Oh I see. We're the weather-vane of the commonwealth. A benign enough role, I suppose, though not glorious enough for many of my contemporaries."

"I was hoping you could tell me more about that."

"A businessman I may not be, as my wife never fails to remind me – but I am not entirely inept. Answers in exchange for answers, Master Jinn."

The Jedi master released a slow breath. "Very well."

"Good." Tamasu shifted his weight. "Your young companion. Apprentice?"

"Former apprentice. He is a Knight of the Order, and a dedicated servant of the Republic."

"Hm." Vineyards and terraced hillsides flashed by outside; the rain traced mesmerizing rivulets upon the transparisteel enclosure. "A Jedi _Knight._ Precocious."

"Very."

"You speak with pride."

Qui-Gon tardily smothered his upsurge of paternal affection. "Pride is a dangerous passion; however, he is quite capable."

The other man settled back against the cushioned bench and rested hands upon his knees. "You needn't play so coy," he remarked. "I've already guessed – he looks exactly like the other two boys."

Such acuity in a non-Sensitive was unsettling; or perhaps that was merely the inevitable fallout of such an unlikely meeting. "I see."

* * *

There were but two sentries posted at the security station; however, they were pleased to showcase the new automated system's various features and mobile cam-tracking functions.

"So you see, Master Jedi, it would be nigh on impossible for an assassin to penetrate our defenses."

Obi-Wan did not find the demonstration impressive. "You will forgive my skepticism. The killer already managed to breach an equally tight security system in the Galactic Senate district. What can happen once, can happen again."

The late-shift officers fiddled with the surveillance console, a crestfallen slump to their shoulders.

"On the other hand," the young Knight amended, hastening to restore their flagging morale, "I doubt the Coruscanti guards are quite as _devoted_ as your brigade."

This assurance hit the right note. "True," one of the men responded, visibly brightening. "Droids only account for so much. We have an _elite_ corps here."

His colleague beamed. "Coruscant is notorious for corruption at every level. It's different here on the Stewardship. Loyalty and dedication make all the difference."

Which was true, except when it was not. "Tell me," the young Jedi said. "From whom did you requisition this security equipment?"

The captain drummed fingers against an armrest. "Glad you asked. The cams and routers are all manufactured on our moon – that's where most the industrial interests are located – but the cybernetic interface is a post-market exclusive from Baktoid."

"Baktoid Armories?"

"Yup. Top notch and not available except by special contract. There's no decryption system in the galaxy that can get past their alpha-grade core matrix coding. The system is hack-proof." As though to prove his point, the uniformed officer opened the access panel beneath his operating station, revealing a labyrinthine cyber-board resembling nothing so much as a miniature hyperdrive.

Obi-Wan frowned. He was competent, but advanced cybernetics of this kind was far beyond his realm of expertise. Still, what he lacked in personal skill he compensated for in eccentric connections. "Have you heard of an anti-register?"

"A what?"

"A fail-safe code-breaking device, engineered by an obscure genius form Phindar. the device is not available on the open market, needless to say.""

But the Terajonians were not fazed. "Whatever it is, whoever invented it, it still couldn't get past Baktoid elite technology. Ask anyone in the industry – they'll tell you the same."

"Thank you – you've laid to rest many of my concerns. May I inspect the premises?"

"Help yourself, sir. "

* * *

"Historically, the estates date back to nearly a millennium ago. The entire world was divided into baronial land grants, and parceled out to those deemed worthy. At the time of the Great Reforms, ownership of the land was transferred to the present tenants, but the barons' households remained in their families' keeping, along with the responsibility of oversight. Each estate patron is legally bound to ensure that every tenant has sufficient prosperity to support a family; the land holding as a whole reports income and conducts economic business as a unified entity, thus protecting small business from the more _damaging_ galactic trade regulations."

"And what benefit do the patrons derive from this arrangement?" Qui-Gon queried, though he had studied the Temple archives records on the subject thoroughly.

"Nothing but the satisfaction of duty," his host replied, evenly. "Which compensation, I am informed, does not sate the appetites of our younger generation. There has been much talk of change here on Terajon. Our progressives want to abolish the feudal structure, and the correlative election and voting system, in favor of straight modern democracy – rule of the majority."

"You do not approve."

Tamasu Kenobi snorted, one brow arching upward. "It is a demagogue's fondest daydream."

The Jedi master had seen too much of the galaxy to muster any sincere objection to this bitter assertion. "And the opposing party?"

"Wish to retain the feudal structure but register each estate as a corporate business interest. As such, we would doubtlessly triple the planetary wealth and sacrifice all our liberty to the dictates of the Banking Guild, the Trade Federation, and the Galactic Tax Board. Pick your poison, say I: there is only a narrow path between the tyranny of the delusional many and the tyranny of the glutted few. "

"So you belong to the reactionary minority contingent?"

This provocative question elicited only a cynical shrug, "Call it what you like, Daijon Jinn. I love the ideals of our Republic. There was a time when most here did – but alas, it seems the center will not long hold."

* * *

The maintenance corridors, ventilation shafts, and emergency exits all checked out; Obi-Wan completed his reconnaissance circuit inside the echoing rotunda chamber, patrolling among the quiescent speakers' pods and the central hover podium, reaching out into the Force for any lingering traces of malice.

The vaulted space echoed with silent overtones of frustration, unrest, confusion, dissimulation and ambiguous motives… but nothing positively _focused,_ no hint of sentient hatred standing out sharp and lurid against the sluggishly eddying currents. He leapt to the floor and gazed up at the cupola dome high overhead. Through the round aperture at its summit a pale silver crescent glimmered, one of the planet's three moons. He exhaled, releasing the _disorder_ of this place in to the Force, soothing his own slightly frayed nerves with a fundamental centering exercise.

He should not be so disturbed by a simple chance encounter.

On the other hand, there was no such thing as chance.

He had done the right thing; he was a Knight of the Order and _not_ fettered by the distractions of sentiment, nor uncompassionate enough to enmesh others – innocent others – in the same snare. He had learned much of detachment over the long years, and one facet of that scintillating jewel of wisdom was this: _others-_non-Jedi especially – often took umbrage at its implications.

A connection forged was a heart shattered, often as not.

Moonlight shafted through the high skylight, bathing him in a narrow beam of luminance. A limpid pool fell at his feet, limning the folds of his cloak in purest, softest white. About him, the chamber faded into obscurity, dulled by the gentle radiance of fate's choice, the finger singling him out as chosen, set aside for something _other._

The world turned, the moon sailed by, the moment passed.

He squinted in the dark again, relieved of the light's direct regard. There, at the periphery of vision, something fluttered, caught in a gust of air from a ventilation grille.

He extended a hand and summoned the mysterious object into his grasp. It floated, gossamer light, into his fingers, which smoothed its rumpled form out into a single sheet of …not flimsi, but actual _paper._ Brows rising in surprise, he ran a finger over the fibrous surface, feeling the irregular creases beneath his touch. The page was printed with letters, though the shapes were too regular and square to be calligraphy. He caught the scent of acrid ink – actual ink, upon actual paper.

Was it an antique, illicitly absented from a display case or archival collection? What would it be doing, fluttering about down here like gutter detritus? He could not read its contents in this gloom, so he folded it carefully in eight parts and tucked the bizarre item into a his belt pouch for later examination.

It had been a day for unexpected discoveries.


	8. Chapter 8

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

* * *

The house was situated upon the most genteel of promontories, a subtle cresting in the landscape that rose above the surrounding acreage at a slow sweep, high enough to suggest protection but not so high as to imply dominance. The architect had been wise, and attuned to material significance, a poet as well as an engineer. The structure itself was a compact sculpture of real, quarried stone – the abode of historical aristocrats hewn from the planet's lowliest pits. Time had smoothed the cornerstones, and eroded the decorative carvings. Water's indefatigable caress and wind's trenchant kiss had softened its edges, verdigris stained the adornments upon lintel and sill. The roof had a distinct slump to its posture, the curvature of great age, much like that of Master Yoda's spine.

This graceful but aged pile looked out over a vast estate no longer its own, and smiled benignly, content with its remaining pittance of four small fields and a large sweep of orchard land beyond, the property lines picked out in prim and defensively useless walls at about knee height – borders of some elfin territorial squabble, or the boundaries of some child's labyrinth. The merely symbolic character of the fences bespoke a society in which much, if not all, rested upon established tradition, an innate respect for unquestioned and therefore unquestionable order.

Qui-Gon Jinn almost felt guilty as he stepped nimbly over the first of these delicate barriers onto a gravel path between drooping and ancient trees. His host ambled up the narrow road ahead of him, leading the way onto a massive if somewhat sagging portico. Two arthritic beasts – furry, vaguely canoid, obviously territorial – greeted their presumptive master with hearty growls and then turned suspicious eye upon his guest, flattening ears to their skulls and raising silver hackles.

The Jedi master waved a hand, soothing their anxieties with a nudge of the vivifying Force; the animals subsided into an amicable complacency.

Their owner raised both brows and snorted softly. "Useful skill, that; does it work upon professional legislators as well?

Qui-Gon tilted his head to one side. "Mynocks, Hutts, and politicians are all marvelously resistant to such influence."

"Even you Jedi can't reason with a leech, hm?"

They paused before a massive set of double doors, dark with age and scarred by centuries' worth of use. "It is sometimes necessary to resort to more aggressive forms of negotiation," the tall man allowed.

A dry chuckle. His companion fretted over a modern key-code 'pad set into the portals' frame. "Eh," he muttered after a moment's vexed hesitation. "Blast this cloak and dagger security system… I can't ever remember-"

Mercifully, the doors slid open without his input, silent upon well-oiled pistons.

"Tamasu, dearest, I -"

The speaker froze mid-sentence, one hand rising to her throat in an automatic gesture of surprise. Limned in amber light from a glittering tree-shaped chandelier behind her, the lady of the house stood arrested upon her own threshold, eyes riveted upon the tall Jedi's striking figure.

"Ue," her husband said, stepping to her side and laying a solicitous hand upon her elbow, "this is-"

"Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn. We are acquainted." The petite woman made her guest a gracious half-curtsey. "Peace upon your coming, Daijon."

Etiquette was a flawless armor against every unexpected vicissitude; the newcomer bowed low, accepting the formal welcome for what it was: a diplomat's greeting, a question concealed beneath the façade of rubric.

"Thank you," he intoned, solemnly, stepping into her home in a single motion. He ducked beneath the slightly low doorframe and took stock of the entryway, paneled in some native woodgrain and adorned with a holoscape depicting a triple moonrise over orchard fields. The furnishings he could glimpse in the spacious rooms beyond were of artisan make, but all antique – an inheritance of goods not matched by proportionate liquid assets, a patrimony dwindling with the passing generations. His hostess meanwhile was whispering urgently in her spouse's ear.

"…I have a very bad feeling about this – he's been gone too long and I've sent 'Owen to find him but he's had no sign and no comm. – you don't think…? Oh –pardon me, I beg you Master Jinn – please, make yourself at home."

The tall man inclined his head, and moved on into the next chamber, a parlor of sorts, pretending not to overhear the remainder of the hasty exchange.

"Now, now, he's been monstrously late before. "

"This is _different!_ I know it. I told you, I have a feeling. He's found trouble again, like I warned him, and –"

"When has Iko not found trouble? There's naught I can do with that boy, Ue, I've told _you._"

An exasperated sigh. "If only he were more like Kashi-Tan!"

"Then we'd have _two_ scholars moping about the place… I prefer the carousing, _di'mpma_."

Their voices dropped to the hushed urgency of a private quarrel, the Force yet ringing with that peculiar resonance of old life-bonded couples, the crafted dissonance of a two-headed creature talking to itself. Qui-Gon made a brief perusal of the room's contents, noting the carefully groomed floral arrangement upon a carved mantle, the neat fusion heater tucked into the archaic fireplace's hearth, the pile of holobooks upon a side table, the half-empty teabowl standing at attention beside them.

A few moments later, the lady returned, a high flush upon her cheeks proclaiming her the victor in the dispute. She raised a hand to make some adjustment to her coil of grey-streaked auburn and adopted a finishing school hospitality stance faster than an eager padawan could fall into Niman all-ready defensive guard. "You are welcome," she smiled, exuding measured charm and poise. "May I offer you tea?"

"The hour is late," he reminded her, neutrally.

Deprived of the weapon represented by ritual civility, the lady teetered upon the brink of an unasked question, a wary hope kindling in her expressive eyes.

"I am here on a peacekeeping mission," the Jedi master informed her. "The assassination of Senator Mushibi has raised questions concerning the present election."

A careful nod, disappointment expertly smothered beneath a cultured façade. She was good - though her fortifications were not impregnable to the Force. Despite the collected exterior, that burning question smoldered on in a dark corner, a thing deliberately ignored by both of them. "And I assume you are _here_ because my husband has… made himself unpopular?"

Qui-Gon risked a tiny smile of sympathy. "He seems to be a man of steadfast principles and very direct speech."

Ue's mouth twisted into a resigned curve, revealing a quiet dimple in one cheek. "You are welcome indeed, then, Master Jinn… this would not be the first time we have entertained Jedi guests, of course."

But her visitor was far too old and wise to take the bait. And trouble was brewing here already. "If you will not resent the intrusion, is there some way I may be of assistance to you personally? I sense a … weight… on your mind."

She dropped into a chair, then, releasing a pent breath. Distress heightened her color, accented the strong planes of her face. She was still handsome, and had clearly once been beautiful. She turned stricken eyes upon him, pleading. "My youngest son… Iko-Re… he's –" a shake of the head, mortification blooming in the Force between them, "- he's headstrong and foolish. He's missing – as he often is – but, Master Jinn: I have such a _feeling_ about it. " She clasped her hands together, stilling a mild tremor. "Sometimes, when it concerns my children… I _know_ things." A cautious swallow, that cultivated self-control reasserting itself. "Heaven help me, I know such a trifling matter does not merit the attention of a Jedi Knight , but…"

But the Force confirmed her inchoate feeling. Danger, or treachery, echoed in the plenum at the mention of this young man's name.

"There is no act of compassion _unworthy_ of such attention," he assured the distraught mother. "I may be able to find him where others have failed."

* * *

_Failure: _ _failure is what happens when our ambitions or expectations do not align with the will of the Force. It has nothing to do with the result of action – in this regard, there is only do or do not, did or did not. A Jedi understands that there is no try, no nebulous isthmus between that which is and that which is not. But a Jedi may fail, for failure pertains to the heart: it is the lingering desire or wish that events, persons, consequences be other than they are, the obdurate insistence of the self upon this or that outcome. _

_Failure haunts those who are enamored of success, for success is its mirror image – it is what happens when our ambitions and expectations happen to coincide with the will of the Force. When this happens, it is too easy to conflate selfish will with destiny, personal triumph with compassion and individual contentment with peace. _

_Both failure and success – illusions though they both are – feed upon attachment._

_Both failure and success- delusions though they both may be – wither beneath the yoke of obedience, through which we renounce both ambition and expectation, twin roots of falsehood and suffering._

Stated thusly, in the words of Master Seva no less, the doctrine was childishly simple and apparent. Obi-Wan counted down one last centering breath and opened his eyes. The ambassadorial suite provided for the Jedi's use was illuminated only by a small lantern outside the sliding doors to his right. The chambers were by no means luxuriant, but did open upon a small enclosed patio garden, evidence that the Prime Minister or her redoubtable staff had better familiarity with Jedi preferences than many a planetary government closer to the Core.

Meditation had been, if not fruitless, less than clarifying. He had chosen for his focus, or sensory anchor, the river stone gifted him by Qui-Gon all those years ago at the outset of their wending journey together as master and pupil. Odd that the faintly pulsing object, smoothed by time and endless currents, emblem – to him, at least – of more than one personal triumph in the face of overwhelming odds, should guide his inward peregrination to such an ominous destination as _failure._

Still, a Jedi flowed with the Force and listened to what insight it might deign to breathe in his ear. Nor did he cultivate inner anxiety about its revelations, however portentous or seemingly dark. Meaning often followed experience, lofty vision elucidated by concrete fact.

He rose and poked about in the room's conservator, questing vaguely for edibles. When this ambition appeared not to be in conformity with the will of the Force, he turned his attention hopefully to the built in larder, seeking the universal placebo for all ills but the greatest: tea.

The raid was prematurely aborted by a long-anticipated _ping_ from his commlink.

He wired the device into the building's secure transmission network. "Kenobi."

The small private console was outfitted with a compact holo-projector. "Ah, excellent," Yan Dooku's velvet tones smoothly echoed over the countless intervening parsecs. "I am surprised to find you at leisure, my friend; or has the assassin already been located and dispatched?"

The young Knight cocked an eyebrow. "We _have_ only just arrived, Master… and even I have my limits."

"Yes, yes." The Sentinel flicked a non-extant grain of dust off his sleeve. "Someday you may even dare to _test_ them… in the meanwhile, I have news."

"Concerning the droid used to attack Senator Mushibi?" Obi-Wan leaned forward, eager and alert despite the paucity of tea.

"The droid assassin was purchased from Baktoid Armories by a disreputable individual claiming to represent the interests of an independent franchise called the _New Dawn."_

"New Dawn?" As title for a piratical band, it lacked the flair or evocative imagery of, say, the Black Sun or the Twi'Lek smuggling ring Skull-Tails. "I've not heard of it."

The senior Jedi looked down his aristocratic nose. "None of us have… but I do not think it is a crime syndicate of the typical debased variety… indeed, the melodramatic bombast of their chosen moniker is suggestive of _political_ liaisons."

"Did your contact have any further information?"

A dismissive wave of one hand. "He proved incapable of sustaining further interrogation."

Obi-Wan frowned, shivering involuntarily. His former mentor's surgical and ruthless deployment of mind probe techiniques to glean answers from recalcitrant interlocutors was not – technically- his concern. But his visceral reaction would not be entirely quelled.

Dooku sensed his unease. "Don't be a fool, boy; he was merely a castaway agent with no real connection, merely a name and a handful of dirty credits for his trouble."

"I see. Thank you for the lead."

The silver haired Jedi master flashed a razored smile, thin and deadly. "May the Force be with you." And then he was gone, dissolved into empty space and a snap of fizzling static.


	9. Chapter 9

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

"_What_?"

A vexed silence from the other end of the 'link betrayed Qui-Gon's displeasure at his mission partner's displeasure at his displeasure …. well, enough said. Mutual pique refracted its smoldering image through the Force's infinite lens, scattering a lovely nuanced spectrum of ill-tempered and strictly unvoiced retorts across their inner world.

"You heard me."

"Yes…" the junior of the pair drawled. "That would be the _problem."_

"Good." A pointed pause. "Contact me again when you've located him." The transmission ended with a curt _blip._

"_Former_ padawan," Obi-Wan reminded the no-longer-present Jedi master. He released a grumbling sigh and tamped down an alarming flare of resentment. Duty, duty, duty. If Qui-Gon _truly_ thought that the inexplicable – or rather, all too tawdry and predictable- disappearance of one juvenile delinquent was somehow integral to their mission outcome, then he would do what he must. Qui-Gon's intuition was not infallible, but it was certainly eerily accurate most the time. And all things were interconnected; much could hang upon a narrow thread.

"Fine," he muttered, shoving the comm device back into its pocket. His fingers brushed against the folded paper he had discovered earlier, and he withdrew it again, just now recalling its existence. Unaccountably curious, he spread the thin sheet out upon a tabletop, its neatly printed contents bathed in a pool of pale lamplight. It was printed in Basic; his eyes flew over the tidy columns and bold section headers.

…_when in the course of one world's sovereign affairs it becomes necessary for that commonwealth to dissolve the political bands which have connected it with that which hitherto has constituted a greater unity, and to assume among the powers of the galaxy, that separate and free station to which the laws of moral and political right and of the universal Force entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of all sentient beings requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to this separation…_

The young Jedi's brows drew together as he perused the remainder of the text, one which enumerated in elegant prose the various offenses against the rights of individual planets and the nature of true democracy committed by the corrupt galactic Senate, and proposed a singularly radical and uncompromising solution to the unconscionable dilemma posed thereby.

"…Stars' end." He was looking at a seditious tractate.

Not that such a discovery necessarily entailed cause for alarm; there were vociferous pockets of rebellion and discontent throughout the Republic's vast extent. Citizens grumbled, spun wild fantasies of reform, called for blood, sent scathing messages to the glutted fatuity known as the Galactic legislature. Republic law _allowed_ for such freedom of opinion, cherished it - at least in theory.

And yet deep instinct raised prickling hairs at his nape. This was different…. Circumstances suggested that it had been in circulation among the voting elite of this planet – and what had Dooku said? _Unrest in the rims is merely symptomatic of the true decay._ And another thing to consider: whoever had prepared this document was no fool. Holotext could be traced, analyzed, decrypted – had to be sent through cyberchannels, had to be read by tech device. This, on the other hand… once printed, it could be passed hand to hand, then destroyed without a trace.

A good assassin knew that the best way past an advanced energy bolt deflection field was with a blunt _knife. _ Simple tools often trumped technology; the old could supplant the new, the _simple_ supercede the complex.

He finished reading the impassioned and eloquent plea for _secession,_ and then folded the incriminating paper back into a pouch. He hadn't time at the moment to fully consider the document's broader implications; at the moment, he'd been commissioned to hunt down an irresponsible _brat_ and haul his sorry rear out of trouble.

He donned his cloak and swept out, in search of Terajon's _underside._

* * *

"We will dine shortly, Master Jedi; your presence would honor our table."

Qui-Gon bowed. "Your hospitality is most welcome. May I have a look about your property in the meantime?"

The lady replied with a small, perplexed smile. "But… the inclement weather –"

"Will bring me no harm, Madame. And more to the point, neither will it deter a potential assassin."

This unpleasant reminder was received with a grave nod. Ue tucked an unruly coil of auburn back into its elaborate knot behind her head. "No of course not," she murmured. "Please, this way." She drew aside a damask drapery and opened double transparisteel doors to an ornamental garden walled on two sides by the moldering edifice's rear-facing wings.

"Thank you." Puling his cowl forward, the Jedi master stepped past the simple threshold into rain-spattered solitude.

Though he could make out only shadow and silhouette in the cloud veiled darkness, the contrapuntal rhythm of slow-falling rain spoke volumes to his ear, attuned by experience and predilection to gardens of all kinds, to the steady pulse of the Force in such places. Droplets fell in muffled cadence upon delicate gravel paths, played sweet tympanum notes upon tranquil reflecting basins and overflowing pools, trilled a thousandfold arpeggio off stem and leaf. Above this liquid symphony a set of mournful reed chimes sang a haunting descant melody. The cold air, redolent of sharp herb and rich mulch, bore also the mineral tang of freshly turned earth from open fields beyond.

Employing a simple Force manipulaton to save himself a thorough drenching, the tall Jedi strode onward toward this wider expanse, leaving the house behind. Gusts of wind tugged petulantly at his cloak hem as he prowled about the fenced perimeter of the nearest pasture. Upon one side, gnarled orchard trees stood huddled against the skies' onslaught; between this stalwart regiment and the waving grass opposite ran a narrow road, one skirting the householders' private domain. The path was unpaved but compacted stone hard by perpetual traffic of laden repulsor craft - freight vehicles or agricultural machinery, in all probability.

Melting into the shades of grey between sight and substance, into his native refuge in the Force, Qui-Gon coursed along this narrow way like liquid shadow, river deeps running soundlessly over time-smoothed stone. Dooku had once been his master, too- and the Sentinel had not failed to impart the vital lessons of stealth to his student, nor the pupil failed to learn them, albeit sometimes under the threat of stern discipline. Wrapped in his voluminous cloak, immune to the rain's pummeling, he flowed silently and invisibly along the border between field and orchard, reaching far and wide through the Force in search of that which might be obscure to the senses.

Halfway round his circuit, he came to an abrupt halt, perceiving an unknown presence ahead, one equally focused and cautious as himself, an undercurrent of grim intention thrumming in the tense plenum. Exhaling slowly, he relinquished his impalpable mantle, and stood in the center of the beaten path.

"Halt!" a young male voice rang out. "Stop right where you are – I'm armed!"

The tall man shook his head, moth quirking a bit at this amateurish proclamation. "Put away your blaster," he advised his would-be assailant. "I'm not the intruder you are looking for."

Footsteps hastened nearer. A halo-rod was lit and raised high, piercing the night with harsh luminance. A thousand whirling droplets glittered in mid-air, illusorily suspended in its blinding shaft.

"You're intruding enough for me," the lamp's owner growled, stepping yet nearer, and squinting to get a good look at the tall stranger. The young man was muffled in a slick rain-coat, but his sure tread and broad frame bespoke a heavy though not athletic build. Closer to thirty than twenty, he glared up at the tall trespasser with undisguised suspicion, the bulky shape of his sidearm bulging in one pocket. "This is my family's land-holding," he barked. "And just who in the blazes might you be?"

"Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn." He flicked his cloak aside just far enough to reveal the burnished lightsaber hilt at his belt, and tilted his chin up in challenge.

"Oh… _miirska."_ The halo-rod was politely lowered, permitting them to look each other full in the face. "My… my apologies, Daijon. I – there is – that is…. I thought – "

"You thought to accost a potential murderer with a single blaster and no better authority than your own voice?"

The young man blushed a violent crimson beneath his close-cropped dark hair. He was obviously a blood relative of some degree, though the coarser features and stockier build suggested a cousin more than a direct descendant. "You know about… how do… so it's true? I'm right?"

"The danger is quite real, or I should not be here. However, I do not sense any immediate threat beyond that you pose to yourself through this imprudent quest for trouble. I think we ought to retreat indoors – and perhaps make one another's acquaintance properly."

Still manifestly shocked at the sudden apparition of a flesh and blood, bone fide Jedi Master upon his hereditary estate, the self-appointed patrolman stammered out his acquiescence and made another deeply apologetic bow. "Atasowen Kenobi. You've doubtless met my uncle already – Daijon Tamasu?"

"Indeed I have. Shall we?"

He extended an imperious hand and shepherded the errant younger man back to the house, wondering just how _many_ such personalities he would be obliged to wrangle in the course of this mission.

* * *

The place was not difficult to find. In fact, the embassy air-car pilot seemed to know precisely where it was located. He brought the vehicle to a discreetly humming standstill some few blocks away, at the outskirts of the township surrounding the legislative district. By Coruscanti standards, the whole area was a backworld village – though here the tidy sprawl of businesses and fashionable town houses must constitute a large urban incursion upon bucolic paradise. Even in the …. disreputable…. Sector at the city's margins, not a spot of vandalism was apparent, not a single vagrant or beggar present upon the streets.

"Shall I wait,sir?"

The young Jedi glanced down the empty thoroughfare, gleaming with the reflected sheen of a hundred festival lights, a perpetually moving tapestry of ripples and waves beneath the steady deluge. "Yes. I'll be back shortly with another passenger."

The pilot's unease wafted through the Force, muddying its currents. "Are you… making an arrest, Master Jedi?"

Obi-Wan offered the poor man an encouraging smile. "Of sorts. Don't worry – the culprit isn't dangerous."

Which pronouncement was received with round dubiety, in consideration of the fact that a _Jedi Knight_ had been dispatched to retrieve the villain. But, true to form, the man held his tongue and gave a brief nod of acknowledgement before scooting the aircar a discreet distance away.

The establishment itself presented an impeccably groomed façade and a boldly graven plaque declaring its name and purpose. Apparently here on the Stewardship, even debauchery was undertaken in a genteel manner; why should not sin also be done in good taste? This … house of ill repute… was clearly _legal _and socially sanctioned, for anything else would only foster a less palatable alternative, seedier incarnations of the same venue, ones offensive to the culture's sensibilities. Obi-Wan's brows rose at the _nicety_ of this arrangement, the sheer… civility of it.

Qui-Gon's teachings must _really_ have got under his skin if he was questioning the sanity of his own most deeply cherished prejudices.

"Hm," he grunted, passing a hand over the motion sensitive door chime.

A shapely protocol unit answered the summons, its vocabulator expertly pitched halfway between soothing and seductive. "Admittance is for members, or by prior reservation, Daijon."

"Oh, I'm expected."

The thing cooed prettily at him. "Your name?"

"Kenobi." Heads were going to _roll._ Well, they would be if the Code did not forbid such satisfyingly emphatic expressions of disapprobation.

"This way please, Daijon. You are welcome. May I take your cloak?"

"No – I'll keep it." He followed his obliging escort into a posh vestibule and then up a wide double staircase onto a luxuriantly furnished landing, and from thence to a quiet hall punctuated by elaborately wrought doors. The droid ushered him to the last of these on the left hand side and passed a code key against the plate.

"Thank you." He was in the dimly-lit suite and assessing his new surroundings with the alacrity of a battle-hardened advance scout before the servitor had bumbled halfway down the corridor. The set of rooms was small but lavish, everything about them sensuous, expensive, and artisan-crafted. There was a trickle of malice eddying in the universal energy – somewhere proximate but not _too_ near; however, the vague threat by no means emanated from chambers' occupants.

A soft arpeggio of female laughter echoed in the next room. He pushed onward, brusquely thrusting aside the intervening curtain, and glowered upon the vignette within. Three young and exquisitely coiffed and painted courtesans hung in various artful poses upon the person of their _extremely_ underage patron, a youth of not more than seventeen with fair skin, strongly cut features, impishly laughing eyes and a pair of dimples to match. This insouciant and clearly inebriated character was lounging at his ease among the threesome, garments and dark hair sufficiently disheveled to suggest that he had initiated the standard launch sequence for further improprieties.

Obi-Wan encompassed the three women in a sweeping admonitory glare. "You'd best leave," he recommended, flatly.

They complied immediately, though with a bit more _smiling_ and _ogling_ than he found strictly comfortable.

"_Sooo_ serious, Daijon," one of them murmured on her way out, trailing a petite hand along his shoulder before finally withdrawing.

"You," the young Jedi addressed the spoiled reprobate half-sprawled before him, "are coming with me."

The lad polished off his glass of fermented _sakuri_ and pulled a face, tossing a silken pillow at the intruder. It veered off course in midair and hit the far wall.

"I don't think so, " the boy slurred, grinning drunkenly. "And who in all hells' misbegotten moons are _you_ supposed to be anyway?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Legacy 2**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"I'm the best thing to happen to you in a long time," Obi-Wan informed his insolent new acquaintance. The _sakuri_ smelled just as foul as he remembered from _that_ mission with Qui-Gon . He confiscated the half-empty bottle and poured its amber contents into the 'fresher basin.

"Hey! That cost me a month's allowance!"

"Oh, and I'm sure your family would approve the investment." He did not bother to blunt the edge of his sarcasm; the audience surely merited no such courtesy.

Iko-Re – for this was the wastrel's name, he had been told – had the effrontery to _mimic _ him, a silent and supercilious imitation of his mannerism and facial expression. The effect was ... _vexatious._

"Has anyone ever told you that you resemble Prince Beju of Gala?"

"Who's he?"

"A moronic fop. On his good days."

Now the asinine youngster staggered upright, swaying indignantly. "Look. This is _my_ suite for the evening. I don't know who you are or where you come from, but you'd best find your manners on the way out. " He puffed out his chest and wagged a finger at his unwanted visitor. "Don't make me do something I'll regret later."

"You've already done that," Obi-Wan quipped, darkly.

"I mean it, you tight-arsed windbag!"

The young Jedi placidly leaned over the table, eyes glittering dangerously. "I'll interpret that as a plea to be dragged bodily from the premises with _most_ your limbs intact."

It was perhaps not so much the threatening tone of this statement as the sight of _the lightsaber, _ made visible as the heavy cloak's folds fell open, that seemed to break through the alcoholic fog besetting Iko-Re's brain. The adolescent lost his precarious balance and plopped backwards onto his hindquarters with a grunt of surprise, eyes widening in stuporous terror. "Jedi!" he gulped, looking up and up with huge blue-green akk-puppy eyes. "Oh… oh, I – I, I, I – it wasn't me I swear to you! It wasn't! I didn't know! I swear to you, I swear it on my honor!"

Obi-Wan's mouth pursed into a furious line. "_What_ honor?"

Distraught and irrational, the boy ran both hands through his unruly hair. "Mum's going to _kill_ me," he moaned.

"She'll have to beat me to the-" Obi-Wan growled, then stopped mid-sentence, head slewing round at the sound of footfalls outside. The Force abruptly spiked in warning, a sharp furor breaking over its invisible horizon: _danger now now now. _"Get down!" he barked, with a sharp gesture.

Iko-Re disappeared beneath the table with a gasp at the same moment the outer door was brutally wrenched open, shorting out the pressure pistons.

A threesome of outworlder thugs appeared in the doorway, long synthleather coats and ostentatiously displayed blasters bespeaking a swaggering villainy. The foremost turned a leery scar-puckered eye upon the room's only visible occupant and thrust his weapons' muzzle forward with a terse gesture. "That him?"

The others nodded, hesitantly. The squat half-Duros on the right wheezed loudly. "Looks just like the obnoxious old barve. Gotta be him."

"You Kenobi?" the leader demanded.

A smile ghosted over the young Jedi's face. Tempting as it was to repudiate all connection, he was even more eager to discover this pestilent crew's motives. "…Yes."

"Look," the stooped Dressalian on the left addressed him, with an unconvincingly benign inflection, "We don't want to mess you up, per se. We just need something you have."

"And why should I give you anything of mine?"

The enforcer – for these were clearly hired guns – waggled his sidearm, clearly identifying it as the foremost arbiter of every dispute. "Either you hand it over or we _take_ it and leave you a little souvenir of the exchange," he said, flintily.

Obi-Wan's brows rose. "I don't think so."

"Look, _pizzmah,_don't play stupid. You took something from Mushibi's private house. Memory crystal, was it? 'Pad? Holo-disk? We need it, and you don't. So just _give it here_ and nobody needs to go home to mommy with his pretty face mutilated."

The young Knight sighed, and quietly removed his cloak, while the posse looked on in heightened anticipation. The dark cloth was tossed aside with a flick of the wrist, landing upon an antique upholstered love seat against the near wall. He grasped the 'saber hilt in his right hand, taking up a loose ready stance in the room's center. "I'll give you three seconds to vacate the building," he told them, cordially. "…Before things get uncivilized."

"Jedi!" the Duros hissed. "Miirsk! Don't _fark_ with him, you idiots!"

But his comrades were too obtuse or bellicose to heed his warning. A split second later, the first shot was fired, and the exquisite little parlor erupted into chaotic melee.

* * *

"Pass the salt, 'Owen dear."

It was a quaint gathering: the four of them seated about one end of the long formal dining table, partaking of a savory baked dish served upon hand-crafted plates, by the light of a refurbished candelabra. The phos-glow fiber bulbs presented a believable facsimile of flickering tapers; the room's edges faded into a comfortable shadow, enclosing them in a timeless familial sphere.

Qui-Gon sipped contemplatively at the excellent vintage in his goblet. Sojourner across the stars though he might be, a Jedi was also _at home_ wherever he served. The Force was universal, not _abstract- _a distinction upon which hinged the difference between compassion and mere power.

Atasowen had expressed his mortification and contrition in a dozen forms since the meal began; the Jedi master had at last forbidden him to speak further of their unfortunate introduction. His hostess by contrast maintained a brooding silence, doubtless agitated on her missing youngest child's behalf, while the family patriarch was determined to steer conversation into the safe harbor of history and philosophy, where the convoluted problem of the _here and now_ could be conveniently forgotten.

Some vices were hereditary.

"…What do you think, Master Jinn?"

He surfaced from his brief reverie with a small grimace. "I confess I am no expert upon the subject ; though I have one or two colleagues who find the Teth dynastic succession a topic of ceaseless fascination." He would not name the foremost of these enthusiasts , for _that_ was a topic most certainly forbidden.

Atasowen snorted. "They should meet my brother. How anybody can have his head stuck in the clouds 'round the clock… it defies imagination."

"Our son Kashi-Tan has just gone up to university," the lady explained.

"To fill his head with fatuous tripe," Tamasu added. " I'll not tolerate another Progressivist rant next time he visits. "

Ue waved this aside. "You would find an excuse to debate with him no matter the circumstances, Daijon," she rebuffed her fuming husband. "The both of you love an argument better than any insight."

"That's unfair, Ue-jon," her nephew laughed. "Each of them loves his own insight best."

His uncle's glower was empty of real threat. "You can be disowned."

Another chuckle. "And leave Kashi in charge of the estate? He'd have it transformed to a utopian commune in a trice, all your vineyards torn out to make room for Service Corps barracks, and the house turned into a Grand Salon for his –"

"Enough," Ue cut across him. "More wine, Master Jinn?"

* * *

He had been careful to avoid the priceless furnishings – prior experience impressing upon him the importance of preserving ambassadorial goodwill in this manner – but one or two deflected bolts had glanced off his 'saber blade into the plaster walls, leaving ugly gouges. This, and a scorch mark along the hand-loomed carpet, were the only permanent signs of damage left by the brief combat. Obi-Wan righted a few overturned chairs and straightened a lamp, then dabbed a bacta-infused gauze against his split knuckles. The Dressalian's skull was ridged, and hard – he should have used his 'saber pommel instead of his fist, but he had to admit to a certain degree of grim satisfaction in dislocating the brigand's jaw.

Behind him, his three assailants huddled miserably together, bound hand and foot in a contorted knot of liquid cable, his only means of restraining them in the absence of binders or a ship's brig. Indigo liquid was seeping from the Duros' lower lip, but the steady stream of profane imprecation issuing from between his clenched teeth assured the young Jedi that the injury was superficial.

"You can come out now," he informed his fractious young companion.

Iko-re crawled from beneath his hiding place, face blanched a sickly white. "I don't feel so good," he confessed, surveying the battle field with haggard mien.

His savior hauled him to his shaky feet. "That's your own fault. Let's get going… the local police are on their way to collect these three, and I don't think you want to be caught here in your present condition."

Groaning, the prisoner allowed himself to be mercilessly hustled down the stairs and into the street outside. Rain drizzled morosely from the black skies, leaving him shivering and miserable by the time they rendezvoused with the air car pilot.

"Get in." Obi-Wan shoved his pathetic counterpart into the passenger bench and slid in beside the driver. "And do _not _retch inside this vehicle."

"I'm trying , I'm trying… where are you taking me?" the miscreant wheezed.

"To my _lair."_ The young Jedi turned his back upon the suffering youth and waved the pilot onward, making a grim private tabulation of how much Qui-Gon Jinn owed him for this one.

* * *

The message came in as text, only transmission; Qui-Gon cocked one brow at the tart undertone of the report. _Remuneration for services rendered,_ indeed. "We'll see about that," he snorted softly to himself.

Ue was the last of the household to retire; he found her pacing a private sitting room's length, hands clasped tightly before her.

"Iko-re has been found, and is safe for tonight," he informed the worried mother. "You should get some sleep – tomorrow promises to be eventful."

Her shoulders relaxed visibly, a flush of unsullied relief and gratitude suffusing the Force's currents. "Thank heaven. I … we are in your debt."

"Not mine," the tall man replied. "I'll make sure he returns home soon, but for now perhaps it is better that he remain under Jedi protection."

Ue's brows contracted slightly. She toyed with a small necklace pendant at her collarbone. "So… he is with…?"

"Yes. I suggest you retire, Daijisa."

Defeated, but delivered of worry's burdens, the lady dipped her head. "Indeed. You are right." She snuffed the glow-lamps as she passed toward the inner doorway, then paused upon its threshold. "Tamasu says he saw him today – at the legislative building. That he looks well."

The Jedi master made a small nod. "There is no cause for anxiety in that regard."

But she persisted, twisting the tiny gem upon its chain. "I would still ask of you that favor which I begged three years ago. For the sake of –"

"Madame," he gently interrupted. "It is no longer in my authority to make such arrangements."

"Your Council must grant special dispensation, then?" she queried.

A careful exhalation. "It is his own prerogative and decision. I can give only counsel and encouragement, and that I have already done. For your own sake, do not grasp at the desire, however fond."

Ue regarded him gravely, the hint of supplication in her previous statement brushed aside in favor of well-practiced poise. "I understand. Though I do not comprehend what offense I may have caused, please convey my sincere regrets. Thank you for telling me."

"You misunderstand, Madame."

"Do I?" Artfully shaped brows rose in an ironic arch. "I thank you for your service to Terajon and my household, Master Jedi. There is no further demand I would place upon your shoulders." She made him a deep curtsey and retreated upon her dignity, disappearing into her private boudoir in a rustle of skirts.

Qui-Gon breathed out his unaccountable tension and cursed himself for an old fool. As Obi-Wan had wisely pointed out, they were on assignment. The mission must take precedence over such trifling matters

And yet, as he settled onto the floor in meditation pose, antecedent to a night's vigil, he wondered whether the affair was as inconsequential as it seemed. All things were interconnected in the Force, and there was – in the final reckoning – no such thing as coincidence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

_The stranger speaks gently of a test, and wraps strong fingers about his wrist. Encircled by expectancy, by a ring of adult eyes hooded and glossy with terrible occult knowledge, he has little choice but cooperation. The newcomer's striped face is close to his again, explaining in long, incomprehensible words what is about to happen. He cannot decipher this elaborate speech, but its meaning is reflected in the mirrors of the others' eyes: destiny hangs in the balance, the fate of his world upon the outcome of this proposed trial. He tenses, hearing thunder on an invisible horizon, but the tall, striped stranger holds him in place, murmuring soothing syllables in a foreign tongue, stroking one calloused finger gently against his palm, encouraging._

_When something sharp pierces the soft pad of his finger, he yelps – more in surprise than pain, for the hurt fades as quickly as it came. A perfect globe of crimson appears where the skin is punctured, and is smeared onto a tiny metallic plate. He wrests his hand from the outworlder's grip and shoves the offended digit in his mouth, easing the sting. The weight of expectation swells to obscene proportion, and he collapses under it, plopping down upon his backside and sucking sullenly at the minor injury. Grown-up voices murmur and whisper, the cadence of their words a choppy ocean, up down up down crashing upon rocks spatter and spray. He recalls the sea, beheld from a distance in its untamed majesty. It too scintillates beneath evening fire, but the glittering waves conceal a dark abyss beneath._

_The somber discussion ebbs and flows, the grown ups gathered about that tiny device in the outworlder's grasp, supplicants before some mysterious oracle, awaiting its decree. And then the verdict is handed down. All eyes turn to him and those he loves best are glittering like the sea – blue green gorgeous soft, but he perceives the dark chasm beneath, sorrow welling like tarry ooze, the world already fraying at its edges, sundering painfully into then and now, past and future. She is _weeping,_ and that gentle efflux summons forth a commensurate response. His heart breaks, though he does not understand why. _

_He is swept up in a pair of trembling arms, the scent of clean linen and sweet perfume momentarily blotting out the judgment of destiny. He clings, hard, wanting and not wanting, not understanding the roaring waves of grief that rise over his head and drown out color and sound. His test has unleashed _pain_, a tidal flood of destruction, enough to sweep away his whole existence and carry him out into the lonely stars, severed forever from home and hearth. His hand throbs only a little, but he knows with the certitude of primmordial experience that the test has been _failed, _ that something he has done - perhaps his cry of displeasure? his uncourageous yelp of pain? - was the catalyst to this apocalyptic schism._

_The whole world is suffering, because he has failed. _

_And when he is reluctantly transferred to stronger arms, those of a stranger, he knows that his exile is deserved. He dares not scream for the one he has lost, for such sounds constitute failure, the first and last test. If he screams, there will be pain, and suffering. He will not cry. He buries his face and clenches his belly and fists and eyes into impenetrable knots, and batters the rising wail of despair down, down into blackest oblivion, from whence it cannot escape._

_It cannot. It must not. It will not._

Obi-Wan started awake, the same scream half-curdled at the back of his throat, sweat prickling cold against his skin.

_Force._

He threw the light blanket aside and paced across the moon-bathed room, sucking in a deep steadying breath.

_Kriffing hells. _ Surely he was getting too old for this sort of thing?

He sank down upon the floor, kneeling, and closed his eyes.

He was no stranger to nightmare; by now, excoriating dreams and he were on a first name basis, though they had been visitors to his psychic domain rather less frequently in the past year or so. The antidote was simple and rigorous, as integral to him as breath. Center, acknowledge, release. There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no chaos, there is harmony.

There is the present moment, consummation of the past, seed of the future. There is duty, and there is truth, beyond the personal. There is no self, no need, no _failure._ There is the Force.

Feeling marginally saner, he opted to consolidate his tenuous victory with some _moving_ meditation. The small garden enclosure outside gleamed phosphor-silver in the moonlight, and was just wide enough to accommodate his chosen 'saber kata, one choreographed by Master Seva himself as a complement to the Lotus-of-Detachment-Floating-Upon-Waters-of-Purified-Memory sutra.

He was a stickler for form- and besides, the kata was _fast._

Purifying himself of recollection's clinging roots with every blazing downward stroke, he seared a kaleidoscopic band of liquid sapphire around his still center – _floating_ upon the present, upon the _real –_until the sun's disc teetered over the horizon and the defiant coursing of his blood smoothed into a sonorous _ooooommm_ to match the 'saber's baritone hum.

He bowed to the rising sun, symbol of the omnipresent Source, and held the ending position for a long five-breath, releasing the vestiges of passion into that same effulgent origin.

The tranquility of the moment was somewhat marred by an unsolicited round of applause from behind him.

"Miiirsk!" his …guest… exclaimed, watching enrapt from the sitting room's couch. "I've never seen anything like that before."

Obi-Wan snapped the 'saber into its hilt and ducked inside. "I should think not," he retorted, dryly. "Get dressed."

Iko –Re groaned and leaned indolently back upon the cushions. "I'll get a cab later –"

"You'll do as I say." He crossed his arms and glared down at the upstart youth. "I'm headed back to the legislative building for the elections. I'll deliver you to your father there…I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you."

The erstwhile reveler shifted uncomfortably where he sat. "It's _daybreak…._ And I've got the mother of all hangovers."

"How tragic. Here." The young Jedi tossed the boy's rumpled jacket and trousers in their owner's general direction. "Your shirt is beyond repair. Do without." Not that he would accept any such sartorial deficit himself, and of course he had a spare undertunic that would fit the boy nicely, but a drunken hedonist deserved no such consideration.

Grumbling, but sufficiently intimidated by the display of swordsmanship to comply without further protest, the adolescent hurriedly donned his clothing and slunk toward the door. "Where're we going?"

"We are going to drink caff. And you are going to answer some _questions."_

* * *

The family's missing pedant showed up early for breakfast.

"Kashi-Tan!" Ue greeted her middle child, wrapping him in a warm embrace.

Fair-haired, slight of build, retiring in manner, he shyly returned the gesture then peered hopefully at the table, where a creaking protocol unit was laying out the morning meal. "I'm famished," he declared.

"When are you not?" Atasowen snorted. "There's nothing to eat up in that scholar's hovel of yours. Is that why you came down?"

His cousin sank into a chair, still clutching a satchel of holopads. "I excused myself from the lectures today because Father – oh. Excuse me." He hastily rose again, flummoxed by his own absent minded oversight. "Please forgive my rudeness." A bow in Qui-Gon's direction.

The tall man smiled at the bumbling youth's embarrassment. "There is no need for apology."

Ue extended a hand. "Master Jinn, my son Kashi-Tan. Kashi, this is Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn."

"Jedi," the youth mumbled, wide blue eyes widening comically further. "Oh." He sat, only to pop back up again upon his father's entrance. "Daijon," he said, making a very low bow.

"Peace on your coming," the elder murmured, placing a hand on his son's head. Then, "Sit by me."

They swiftly rearranged themselves about the table, while the droid poured tea.

Bursting with curiosity, the university student leaned forward eagerly to address the visitor. "Are you here because of the elections, Master Jinn? Coruscant has sent an _ambassador_ to ensure a proper outcome?"

Tamasu growled around a spoonful of spiced porridge.

"Jedi do not _fix_ elections," the Jedi master placidly replied. "I may, however, be able to prevent a further assassination." He nodded briefly toward the boy's father.

"Oh." Subdued, Kashi-Tan fiddled with his utensil. "What do you think of the Rim Mercantile Security bill proposed before the Senate? I'll wager the Jedi Order isn't keen on the idea of legitimized corporate militia patrolling the Rims."

Atasowen slammed his tea bowl down. "It's a simple provision to allow the Trade Federation protection against piracy – and the Republic can't _afford_ to subsidize that kind of enterprise. Why shouldn't business interests have the right to safeguard their own interests?"

His younger cousin bristled. "Better regulatory measures in the economic sector would make piracy obsolete! The black market only flourishes because corrupt politicians perpetuate it for private gain! Reform closer to the source is the answer! The legislators themselves need to be held accountable!"

Ue's spine stiffened. She folded her hands primly upon the tabletop. "Is it strictly _necessary _to debate politics at _every_ family meal?"

But her husband leapt into the fray, unabashed. "Oh yes," he harrumphed. "Let's grant a centralized authority carte blanche to impose _order_ on the rest of the galaxy. Do tell me, Kashi, how shall we elect this beneficent tyrant? By mob vote, or shall it go to the highest bidder, as 'Owen would doubtless recommend?" He leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling combatively.

Both boys issued strident objection at once, words tumbling over one another in an indignant cataract.

All three turned expectant faces toward their offworlder guest.

"What do you think, Daijon?"

Qui-Gon raised his brows and refilled his hostess' cup. "I think it ill-advised to discuss politics over food. I cannot tell you how many ambassadorial banquets I have seen end in violence."

A hearty chuckle from the head of house; both younger relatives deflated visibly. Ue breathed a sigh of purest gratitude, expressive eyes shooting daggers at her contentious menfolk.

"You had better make haste," she urged them. "Air traffic in the city will be dreadful."

* * *

Two and a half froth-crowned caffs seemed to dispel the sludge polluting Iko-Re's mind; sober at long last, he peered balefully at his rescuer and declared himself prepared for interrogation.

"How were you involved with Senator Mushibi?" Obi-Wan demanded.

The youth was taken aback. "You don't want to know how I got into the brothel last night? Or how much I drank? Or who-"

"No. I don't ."

Disappointed, the young rake scowled into his third cup of strong argees. "Oh. I thought I was in trouble. I mean, you know, with the _Republic_."

"Start talking or you will be."

"All right, all right- easy!" Two hands carded through ebony hair, dragged dolefully down either side of Iko-Re's comely face. "Mushibi. I didn't really know him at all. I swear to you. I have nothing to do with his death! We only used his place for a bit of a party, some friends of mine and I – he has the old manor house in the Yorimo holding, empty all year since he's on Coruscant and the droid staff are very obliging – we told 'em we were invited, they let us in…. just a night or two worth of entertainment."

"Without permission."

The rascal squirmed. "He's on Coruscant all year, and it's a marvelous house, six floors, three verandas, ballroom, kitchens, open rooftop-"

"What did you take? Those thugs were under the impression that something valuable had been removed from the premises."

"Nothing! We took nothing! None of us would sink to _thievery!"_

Obi-Wan regarded the speaker with a jaded detachment. "Oh, I see. You are men of _honor."_

The droll undertone was wasted upon its intended recipient. "We're all _gentlemen_… of course!"

"Hm."

Iko-Re glanced up suddenly, a strange expression stamped on his well-defined features. " Hey… that's odd. For a minute there you looked a dead ringer for... I just noticed. What accounts for that?" he wondered.

His companion arched a brow. "Dark cosmic irony, I would venture."

But the train of thought, once set in motion, could not so easily be halted. "…. Wait just a minute… " the young man leapt to his feet, upsetting his caff.

Jedi reflexes saved it from spilling. "Easy. Sit down."

Iko leaned over the table, mouth gaping. "Is your name _Kenobi?"_

_Blast it. _ "That's _Master_ Kenobi to you." He stood. "Let's go. We haven't time for tearful reunions. You've an aircar to take to the rotunda. And I've _work_ to do."

"But-"

"No buts. Come along." He hustled his captive back to the private embassy aircar and gave the pilot instructions over the stuttering objections issued from the rear passenger compartment. When the sleek vehicle had melded into the sluggish rivulets of morning traffic, he dashed off in the opposite direction, toward the mag-tram terminal.

Mushibi's domicile might hold vital intelligence; he would have to investigate.

And it was better than brotherly camaraderie, in any case.

* * *

Ue caught up with Qui-Gon again outside the door. "Have you heard from…?"

"He is bringing Iko-Re to the rotunda," the tall man assured her. "None the worse for wear…. Except possibly for a severe tongue lashing, which I am certain you will agree is merited."

The lady pursed her lips, stamping a fretful foot. "That boy will be the death of me… thank you again for your intervention. And… "

Qui-Gon sighed. Tenacity seemed to run strongly on both sides of the bloodline. "I shall convey your apology and renew the invitation," he promised.

Atasowen appeared, hovering solicitously at his aunt's elbow. "Are you all right, Ue-jon?"

She dredged up a smile for him. "Yes, of course. I cherish a foolish daydream, 'Owen… do not let my frivolity give you cause for alarm."

The young man frowned a little, glancing uncertainly at the Jedi master. "I'm curious to meet Bibi again too, but you mustn't dwell on it. We've already discussed this. "

She patted his arm. "I know. Forgive me, Master Jinn. I am keeping you from far more pressing duties."

Qui-Gon bowed, then hesitated, burning to know. "…Bibi?" he inquired, upon the threshold.

His former apprentice's older cousin grinned, wickedly. "He couldn't very well pronounce his own name, you know. Baby-talk. _Bibi-Wan._ It was funny." He cast his gaze downward, scowling. "I was nine years old… well, never mind. It's in the past."

"Indeed."

This was not the time. The tall Jedi pulled his cowl up and hurried out to meet the aircar hovering at the drive's far end. The results of today's electoral process would be illuminating, if nothing else.


	12. Chapter 12

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

The grand plaza was clotted with irate citizenry, hover-cams and one or two security force repulsor swoops buzzing overhead like angry hornets.

Qui-Gon pushed through the milling assembly, Tamasu at his heels. "What is happening here?"

The Prime Minister's personal retinue formed a corridor with their pikes. "Make way for Daijon Ichiru!"

"Master Jinn! You are needed… a terrible breach of security has occurred; two men are dead inside the rotunda."

They pushed onward, amidst jostling and murmuring crowds. Bronzium double doors parted to admit them into the building's foyer. Two blaster-riddled corpses lay respectfully arranged upon palettes, their faces ghastly in the hushed gloom.

"The night guard," Qui-Gon observed. The Force still rippled faintly with shock, the sour adrenaline tang of men taken entirely by surprise. But there was no corresponding trace of sentient malice, no echo of murderous intent. "We are looking at another droid assassination," he concluded.

The police detail muttered and exchanged dark looks, but deferred to his opinion, eyes fixed upon his 'Saber hilt and the signature drape of Jedi tunics and cloak. On a world of tradition and hierarchy, these outward signifiers alone assured great respect.

Minister Ichiru smoothed the front of her ceremonial robes. "Such a breach of security is supposed to be impossible. This is a planetary crisis; I will have to postpone today's elections until we have addressed this outrage."

The tall man nodded. "Agreed." Though he could not suppress the nagging suspicion that such a delay was merely playing into the killer's hands. Surely this intrusion was a gesture, a threat issued to potential victims, a warning that _nowhere_ was safe.

He found a private alcove in the vestibule's far corner and withdrew his commlink.

"Master."

"Where are you?" he demanded of his younger colleague.

"Rifling through Senator Mushibi's personal effects, if you must know," Obi-Wan drawled. A beat, in which he picked up on the disturbed tenor of the other Jedi's thought. "What has happened?"

"Another two killings, in the rotunda building last night. We may be looking at a terrorist organization."

"New Dawn," Obi-Wan supplied. "It seems likely they have at least one operative on-world. The local police have three hired hands in custody. You should interview them."

Slightly taken aback at the imperious tone of this suggestion, Qui-Gon hesitated.

Too long- for his thought was discerned without need of words. "I would have done so myself," the younger Jedi reminded him, verging on sarcasm again, "but I was otherwise occupied – babysitting a profligate relative."

"Who incidentally provided a lead in this investigation," the tall man retorted.

"Yes, well."

"I still think protecting the family should be made a priority – especially if the murderers think there is some connection between Iko-Re and Mushibi."

"I'll not stop you," Obi-Wan quipped. "And I'll contact you again if I find anything of interest here."

Grumbling under his breath, Qui-Gon snorted a reluctant acquiescence. He would pull rank if and when it was absolutely needful – but matters had not yet reached such a crisis yet. He could question the prisoners and return to the homestead with Tamasu. But first…

"Minister Ichiru!"

The elegant woman lifted her brows at the summons. "Master Jedi? May I be of assistance?"

"A word with you in private, at your convenience."

She nodded curtly, summoning the obligatory bodyguard to their stations. "Of course." They paced further into the colonnaded entry hall, away from prying eyes and ears.

"Are you aware that _secessionist _ literature is circulating among your voting assembly?"

The head of state blushed a furious crimson. "Daijon Jinn," she said, voice quavering with suppressed emotion – mortification, resentment, anxiety – "The Stewardship historically is among the staunchest supporters of Republican ideals. It is insulting to so much as _imply-"_

"So you are aware."

Her eyes flashed with volcanic emotion. "This rumor must not be idly circulated about Coruscant."

"Madame, you would not have asked for Jedi aid did you feel competent to manage the volatile situation alone. I need your complete honesty."

Minister Ichiru hung her head, silver tresses glinting in the low light. "I fear that the.. insurgency… may be behind Mushibi's death. I do not know who they are, or what they intend to achieve, but… I beg you, Daijon, respect the honor of my planet. We cannot be publicly humiliated before all the Core and Rim worlds. I would step down from office gladly if I thought such action would save my people from shame… do you understand?"

"I understand the basis of your fears. But I must do as the Force guides me."

Daijon Ichiru closed her eyes, standing straight and tall as a martyr going to the stake. "Then I pray the Force miraculously spares us such dishonor. Please, Master Jinn – you must find these people and _stop_ them."

* * *

Mushibi 's residence was vast and expensively appointed, but there were no indications that the man himself lived in a luxuriant fashion. The wine cellar was all but empty, the furnishings were priceless but clearly several generations old, there were only a handful of automated staff present on the premises. The house was a rambling mansion of _six_ floors, and bragged all the amenities which Iko-Re had so enthusiastically enumerated. But that was all; secret passageways, hidden smuggler's cupboards, buried vaults and trick panels were all conspicuously missing. If the deceased Senator had something to hide, he had not used his home as its keeping place.

There was not so much as a spare 'pad lying about on a desk, or a used data crystal rolling loose in a drawer. Nothing.

And the Force eddied tranquilly, giving no direction, shimmering only vaguely with disquiet.

Still, if the agents who had accosted Iko-Re knew the boy's name, and knew that he had been here….yes.

The place was under surveillance. He renewed his efforts, and located four separate standard espionage holo-cams tucked away in obscure corners. He shorted out all but one, which he tucked into a belt pouch for later dissection. A smart operator would not relay the feeds to any meaningful location, but there was always the off chance that equipment might have been left lying about at the other end of the operation.

Frustrated with his relative lack of success, he made one last circuit of the upper floor, which was still strewn with the reprehensible evidence of extended revelry by the trespassing fraternity. Sakuri bottles, food scraps, one or two discarded garments, and other detritus lay scattered over floor and furniture. Morning light streamed through panoramic windows and the open skylight above, bathing the scene of adolescent debauchery in a piquant glow.

He waited, sensing… something… and wondering idly whether he ought not to shut the skylight panes, since the uninvited guests had been irresponsible enough to … _wait a moment._

Rain. The downpour had extended this far – the grounds outside had been damp, droplets still clinging to leaf and stem, crawlers and shelled mollusks abundant upon the slick drive.

It had rained all yesterday and last night, and yet…

The floor beneath the skylight was dry.

'Saber hilt in hand, he prowled round the empty suite and then proceeded stealthily downstairs again, senses now honed to an utmost pitch. He had perceived no other sentient presence, and that open window in the roof was highly suggestive of –

A whir of motion at the periphery of vision, a subtle spiking in the universal currents –

He leapt down the last flight and rolled beneath the defensive blaster bolt, the heat of compressed plasma singeing his left shoulder. Blade singing hot and true, he sprang up, pivoting, and rebounded the next two shots straight into the cannon, blowing it off its mount and sending the dark spheroid droid ricocheting into a far wall.

It recovered swiftly, and zoomed straight up the center of the spiral stairwell, intent on escape.

_Not so fast._ Aloft on the Force's limitless power, he soared straight upward, hands closing about the thing's undercarriage brackets. A momentary lurch as the repulsors adjusted to his weight, and then the thing jolted upward again, spinning as it tried to dislodge him, streaking in a blur up through the well and then the open skylight, a black comet trying to shake off its tail.

They dipped and spun, the green tracery below whirling out into nauseating kelesidocpic color as earth and sky and horizon and cloud were bleared into a continuos line of motion. Obi-Wan held on – for dear life, he grimly admitted to himself; this was _not_ his most brilliant idea and a far cry from heroic, but it was far too late to rethink his action – and struggled to push the thing _down,_ the Force ready to his aid but tattered into useless festival pennants by the gyroscopic motion of their careening headlong flight.

_I hate flying. I hate it I hate it I hate it-_

Focus! A guttural cry of effort, and he brought the Light to bear upon the things' internal circuitry. A snap of discharged energy, a searing bolt of fire running up both his arms and nearly loosing his grip as the whole droid was suddenly reverse magnetized, and then a sickening plummet downward.

Trees opened their leafy boughs wide to receive them.

Obi-Wan let go and called on the Force to break his fall, the deadweight assassin probe hurtling to its own destruction alongside him –

Down down down, and –

Thwack-thwack-thwack, swish. Tumble, Thwack. Roll over twice in midair – "_Oooof."_

Clatter-thunk. The dead droid rolled to a battered standstill beside him.

He clambered upright, wheezing a trifle, and hastily regaining his feet and his dignity, despite the lack of witnesses to the event. "Ow." The ruined probe unit was still blipping and whirring balefully, a felled cyclops' head glaring up at him through its one cybernetic eye. Grimacing, he squatted down to poke at the carcass, a model and design he had never seen before despite Dooku's extensive tutelage. It did not require great tech expertise to see this was a very sleek, new, and dangerously advanced model.

"Baktoid," he guessed aloud. It was a uniting fact in everything about this mission. And it would explain how the supposedly impregnable legislative building security system had been breached. There was an ancient legend he had loved as a youngling, about a labyrinth so complex that none could escape its corridors, once imprisoned therein – except of course the dark genius who had designed it.

He unsheathed the Vespari steel knife from its place inside his boot and set to prying the thing's carapace open. Surveillance was a two-edged sword, and he intended to benefit from that fact.

* * *

The local authorities were more than happy to allow a Jedi to do the unsavory honors; they obligingly locked Qui-Gon into a small interrogation room in the prison bloc's basement level.

"Aw, miirsk," the Dressalian malefactor groaned, upon seeing his visitor. "More Jedi."

Qui-Gon settled into a molded plastoid seat and propped his booted feet upon the intervening table. "Tell me," he said, casually, "How are you involved in Senator Mushibi's murder?"

The prisoner's head jerked upward. "Murder? We're not being held on murder charges! Trespassing, okay… maybe assault – but that was your friend's fault – he pulled his weapon first, we were acting in self defense!"

The tall man raised a brow. "He advised me to deal with you, on the supposition that you possessed a glimmer more intelligence than your accomplices."

"That's not very nice," the Dressalian muttered, truculently.

"Oh, I think he was being nice…" The Jedi master interlaced his fingers, resting both hands comfortblay above his belt. "The fact that you escaped with only a broken jaw and a few bruises means he was being _very_ nice indeed. Lightsaber wounds don't heal nearly as well – especially the sort that involve amputated limbs."

"You trying to intimidate me?" his interlocutor demanded, sourly.

"There is no try." Lounging at his ease with the careless grace of a hunt-sated jungle colwar in its favorite tree, Qui-Gon regarded his chosen informant blandly.

The message was duly received and noted. "You people are a threat to public safety."

The tall man raised his brows, one hand stretching up behind his head while the other crept, ever so softly, to rest upon the pommel of his 'saber.

The miscreant flinched. "Okay, okay – look! We had no idea there was a murder at all! You gotta believe me… we were just doing odd jobs."

"For whom?"

A defiant shrug. "No names exchanged. Ain't part of the business. Holo message for orders, direct deposit to my credit account. Clean and simple."

"New Dawn, perhaps?"

"If you already know, then why ask?"

"Thank you. What were you sent to retrieve from Mushibi's residence – the object you supposed stolen by your intended victim yesterday evening?"

"I dunno!" the unfortunate villain insisted. "Some kinda data device, was what we heard. I don't think our client even knew for sure exactly what, just that there must be one. Look – that kid and his cronies were in the house, our employer figured he was the one who removed whatever it was, since his pa was in tight with the Senator.. I don't know the details. Routine extortion job, you know? I'm just the muscle, not the brains of the operation."

"Clearly," his interrogator replied, dryly.

There was a weighted pause, in which the Dressalian fiddled with his uncomfortable orange jumpsuit, and the Jedi master tipped his chair legs back to the floor with a startling _snap._

When he stood to leave, the criminal leaned forward, one hand outstretched. "Hey – you're not gonna push this murder charge chisszk, are you? "

Qui-Gon fixed him with a stern eye. "I'll speak with you again if I need more information."


	13. Chapter 13

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Tamasu was quietly irate. "I'm cutting off your allowance _entirely," _he growled at his youngest scion. "And were it my choice, young sir, it would be the Service Corps rehabilitation program for you!"

"Daijon!" iko-Re all but squeaked. "You can't!"

"It's only for your blessed mother's sake I don't," the old gentleman informed him, scowling thunderously. "Really, Iko! A _hospitality house,_ for stars' sake! What am I to tell her?"

The subject of this chastisement stared sullenly out at the passing landscape, sinking as low in his seat as humanly possible. He had not dared make eye contact with Qui-Gon the entire journey.

"What would you do, Master Jinn, if this disgraceful _prodigal_ were your son?"

The tall man reluctantly considered the question. There were.. memories… snatches of Xanatos' face, snippets of long-repressed recollection, that did not merit exhumation. He sighed. "At the age of seventeen, he would be facing expulsion from the Order for such egregious violations of our Code – and common decency - unless his master pleaded most convincingly for an exception. And in such a case, in lieu of a public repudiation, it would fall upon his mentor to make the requisite lesson _stick."_

Iko-Re cringed, face resolutely turned to the transparisteel enclosure's pane. "I want to _live_ a little," he complained. "I'm not boring like 'Owen, or Kashi…. I need more than business accounts or musty old books to keep me _going!_ I have _passions!_"

"You have hormones," his father corrected him, sardonically. "Perhaps next time I send pasture animals to be gelded, I should – "

"No!" his son protested, sitting ramrod straight. Dark brows beetled together in a furious line. "I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment to you, Daijon! Perhaps I should just Ieave. You have 'Owen to run the estate and Kashi to make you proud. Oh….and I forgot." His voice took on a silken acidity eerily reminiscent, to Qui-Gon, of another sharp-tongued youth. "You have my _other_ brother to uphold the family honor. Why didn't you ever bother to tell me there's a kriffing Jedi _Knight_ in the family?"

Tamasu's hiss of alarm cut across the boy's fury like an adder's whiplash strike. "How dare you!"

But Qui-Gon held up a pacific hand, leaning forward to address the hothead personally. "Why do you feel _cheated_ by your parents' reticence on the matter? No benefit accrues to you by the relation."

"I deserve to know the _truth,_ don't I?"

The Jedi master shook his head, sadly. "Much of what you call truth depends greatly on your point of view. It would be more truthful, from a certain perspective, to say that you do _not_ have another sibling. What was, and what is, are often disparate realities."

But Iko-Re was unimpressed by the platitude. He turned again to his sire, visibly fuming. "You kriffing gave my _brother_ away, didn't you? My mother _gave him away!_ _" _He heaved in a deep breath, his next words crumbling into an incoherent noise deep in his throat. He abruptly turned away again.

"Iko –Re!" his father snapped, bracing both hands upon his knees. "You will apologize to Master Jinn for your disrespect to an ancient and honorable Order, and you _will not_ make a scene when we return. Your poor mother – "

The young man glared at him, startling blue-green eyes glossing over in pain. Qui-Gon released a long breath, surprised at what visceral reaction the sight stirred within him; association and memory were treacherous things. "I take no offense," he assured the mortified father.

Tamasu dragged one hand over his face and bowed his head. "Stars' end," he murmured, shoulders slumping beneath the burden of many decades' care. "We have brought you much trouble , Master Jinn."

But, the tall man grimly reflected, the inverse proposition was also manifestly true. They flew on in mutually disconsolate silence.

* * *

Obi–Wan put a few finishing touches on his hack job and sealed the droid's armature closed again, mouth pursed in concentration. He reviewed his handiwork with critical eye and found it satisfactory; a cursory inspection would reveal nothing amiss. It would take another Force sensitive to perceive his signature, the impalpable impress of his meddling. As for a band of seditious conspirators with a propensity for employing expensive gadgetry and moronic hirelings…. He felt confident that his interference would pass unnoticed.

The droid burbled back into life so soon as he released the stand-by override – and then headed for the proverbial hills, whizzing high above the treeline and veering off in a south-westerly direction, as though eager to escape his unwelcome ministrations.

He saluted its retreating silhoueete and took stock of his surroundings. The trees were densely planted, but obviously well-tended – an orchard then. He dusted off his trouser knees and set off at a brisk clip across the property, roughly gauging the vector from which he had come. The sun was high, and the air stifling beneath the bending boughs; soon enough he had shed his cloak and was regretting his choice of _caff_ as solitary breakfast selection. Minute flies buzzed about his ears and lizards skittered in the fallen leaves beneath his boots as he trekked through the orderly grove.

A baying caught his ear, followed by a flutter of warning in the Force. Guard-akks, probably. He halted, one hand resting as a precaution upon his 'saber hilt.

Soon enough the pair of beasts snuffled into his vicinity, hackles bristling and ears flattened. A simple mind trick dispelled their instinctive suspicion and had them quite literally licking his boots.

"All right, that's not - not _civilized."_ Absolutely disgusting. He would have to polish _that_ unsightly glop away posthaste. But in the meanwhile…

"Who goes there?" a querulous but not aggressive voice called out. A moment later, an ancient but spry figure emerged from between the close packed trees, walking staff in one hand and archaic shade-hat covering a wizened head. Simple tunics like those favored by the land-owning classes were topped by a long and faded vest. The man had a short goatee beard and dark, perceptive eyes, which raked over the intruder in an instant, registering the tunics, belt, and especially the _lightsaber _ with swiftly augmented astonishment. " Stars and galaxies! Who are you?"

"Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi. Forgive my trespassing; I…ah… happened to drop by in the course of other duties."

A gnarled hand waved away the apology. "Makko and Burll seem to approve you, eh?" The hounds returned to their owner's side, tails wagging frantically. "Did you say….. did you say _Kenobi?"_

_Blast it._ But there was little point in evasion or denial. "Yes. I wonder-"

"Kenobi!" the elder barked, squinting intently at the newcomer's face. "I'll be damned!... Tamasu you old bastard, not too shoddy, eh. Ha! Well, well. This is a surprise. My heart nearly gave out there. And what does a Knight of the Republic hope to gain from old Seniiko's muja orchards? Besides fruit, I mean." He reached up an age spotted hand and robbed the nearest branch of its bounty, proffering one succulent orb to his guest and taking an unabashed and dribbling bite of the other.

Obi-Wan accepted the humble offering, blinking in surprise. "Daijon Seniiko," he addressed this amiable if eccentric character. "I need transport and a secure comm channel; do you-"

"Yes,yes, of course, come this way, it's a short walk back to the house from here. Makko! Burll! Heel!" The elder stumped away swiftly, his tall cane thumping a staccato martial rhythm in sync with his long, energetic stride. He did not so much as look back to be sure he was followed; smiling at the whimsical temperament of his host, Obi-Wan fell into pace beside him.

"Your assistance is greatly appreciated, Daijon."

"You'll be here to oversee the elections, I'm thinking. And maybe to find old Mushibi's killer."

The young Jedi raised his brows. "Yes. Did you know the Senator personally?"

Seniiko chuckled, stumping doggedly along up a step incline at the orchard's boundary. "We crossed paths now and then – common interests in history and so forth. Formal dinners when he was on planet. A good man, undeserving of death. "

"Yes." The details were confidential to the mission. Fortunately the old man did not press for further information.

Unfortunately, he had other matters to preoccupy him. "I know your father, too. Tamasu is an honorable man. And Ue, beautiful wise Ue…. You must convey my regards to your dear mother so soon as you see her again."

"I….shall."

Seniiko halted beneath the last outcropping of trees. He turned keen, if rheumy eyes, upon his companion. "Forgive my prurience, I beg you, but….There's no cause for _estrangement_ between you?"

The young Jedi bowed, a trifle stiffly. "Daijon - understand this: the Precepts of my Order forbid the cultivation of familial attachment. "

"Ah, of course, of course… I intended no offense. " he bobbed his aged head a few times, then _winked._ "I'm growing sentimental in my dotage. I remember you, though you don't remember me, I'll wager. You were all rosy cheeks and big eyes when last I clapped eyes on you. Wondrous, the ways of the universe: time reduces me to a doddering wreck and transforms a sweet lisping babe into a Jedi Knight,_" _ he chuckled, plodding onward through a gap in a low stone wall.

There was no safe response to this rambling discourse, so Obi-Wan made none.

"Eat that muja, Daijon! Unless you've lost your taste for them over the years? I thought not, ha! It's an excellent crop this year – auspicious, they might say. Come along."

* * *

The discordant overtones in the Force chafed at Qui-Gon's nerves even before the holographic image had resolved itself above the plate.

"Progress?" he inquired of his protégé's flickering effigy.

"Possibly," came the curt reply. "I've embedded a tracking device inside a probe droid I found trespassing on Mushibi's property."

"You mean it interrupted your own trespass."

A flicker of amusement resounded between them, a brief flare of levity. "From a certain point of view… I've already got a read on its trajectory. I'm going to follow it."

But that was possibly counterproductive. "We should wait to see where it strikes next; dismantling the operation now will shed no light on its motives." Obi-Wan was seldom so fecklessly aggressive on assignment; his haste was perhaps symptomatic of a more subtle impatience.

The quiet reprimand was unwelcome, but humility bade the younger man to reconsider. He dipped his head, a displeased line appearing between contracted brows. "Fine. We'll wait . I've arranged transport. Where are we meeting?"

Qui-Gon raised his brows, deliberately off-hand . "I think it is time you reciprocated the gracious interest of a certain lady. Daijisa Kenobi would be honored by your presence at her table tonight."

Cognizant that this was a gauntlet thrown down between them, and no mere polite invitation, Obi-Wan visibly relaxed into simmering battle-stance, voice dropping to a velveted placidity evocative of Qui-Gon's own studied calm. "Daijisa Kenobi's desires are hardly germane to this mission; please convey my sincere regrets."

It was time to play dirty, whether or not he thereby invoked his counterpart's ire. "On the contrary, your anxiety to avoid such an encounter endangers the mission; personal preferences can be a source of perilous imbalance. Your judgment is clouded."

"_It is a foolish artisan who mocks his own handiwork," _ the young Jedi shot back, an acerbic edge serrating the glib quotation.

The tall man pressed his lips together, generous reserves of tolerance nearly depleted by this exchange. " I'm disappointed."

The brief phrase was, and always had been, more volatile than pressurized liquid tibanna- a thing to be used in the last resort, in full awareness of its specific personal implications.

Obi-Wan's face stilled into a cold fury ineptly masking _hurt._ "Lower your expectations," he gruffly advised.

The Jedi master leaned forward, splaying both broad hands upon the tabletop. "I will never so dishonor you, young one."

Stalemate; and yet the stubborn gundark still would not yield. "Well," Obi-Wan observed, darkly, "This is going to devolve into aggressive negotiations, isn't it?"

Qui-Gon saw through the jaded insouciance to the unspoken challenge. _Make me. _ Because, like his former mentor, the young Jedi would not - could not – merely surrender a contest. "Very well. We'll discuss the matter privately. There is a fallow field on the north side of the land-holding. Meet me there in one hour. Jinn out."

The sooner they _settled _the issue, the better. For everyone involved.


	14. Chapter 14

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Old Seniiko keyed in an access code and punched the lock release, sending a pair of rusted metal doors sliding apart on creaking pistons. The dilapidated outbuilding housed a bevy of repulsor vehicles – aircars, tractors, a cluster of run down swoop bikes, a large agricultural contraption that might be a combine harvester. Behind the dusty transports were stacked old tech parts and machines in various states of disrepair, some of them markedly antique.

"Is that a … _hand loom?"_ Obi-Wan asked, peering at a rickety invention propped in one corner of the gloomy warehouse.

"Oh yes… ancient technology is an avocation of mine… I've a number of useless devices here. " The elder waved a vague hand. "Trying to build a replica combustion engine. Fossil fuels, you know? And I've got a few early solar panels – a lever and pulley system for lifting heavy objects – long before repulsors, that's what some folks did… butter churn, _painting easel,_ whatnot. Weapons- that' s a recurve bow, there's a metal sword stowed up in the rafters somewhere. I don't keep ammunition or explosives, too risky. An old man's obsession." He scrambled inelegantly into the nearest aircar and lifted it off the moldy floor on repulsors. "Hop in, I'll take you myself."

"You are an amateur historian."

"We're all amateur historians, Daijon! Oh, well, I suppose Jedi make history on a _professional_ basis_,_ but most of us only attain such infamy posthumously, if at all."

It was hard not to like the voluble elder. And garrulity had its uses. "Did Senator Mushibi share your passion for ancient artifacts?"

"Oh, not as such. History, yes… there are a handful of us old codgers, enthusiasts for the past you might say. It is good to keep the lamp of learning shining bright, even in one's golden years. Knowledge is the greatest consolaiton of age, you know."

They shot out of the barn and away across Seniiko's land holding, terraced hills ooming close on the right as they skimmed over the sculpted land, outlined in miniature fences, neatly portioned into demure geometries of field and orchard, pasture and occasional water-way. "Many Jedi choose to retire from the field for a life of contemplation," Obi-Wan offered, inexplicably warming to his talkative host. The faint ephemera of a recollection batted fragile wings against his mental shields, pleading for entrance, but he brushed it aside, focusing on the here and now.

"Wise of them; tradition is preserved by the old, while those in their prime fight the perennial battle for civilization and the young ones clamor for revolution."

"You feel the younger generation on the Stewardship would support an insurrection?"

"Oh, the University students make a great deal of fuss… but they're harmless. As are the conservatives. No, no – trust me, when the winds of change come, this planet will be caught off guard entirely. Most of it, anyway. Only those who look _backward _ can hope to weather the future."

On impulse, the young Jedi posed the question foremost on his own mind. "Have you heard of a radical political organization styling itself New Dawn?"

But Seniiko shook his silver head. "Not in all my days. Why?"

Odd, considering the man's intimate familiarity with the warring factions on his homoeworld; but perhaps this was simply evidence that the terrorist group was an outside interloper, a parasitic intruder upon Terajon's hereditary peace. "No reason."

* * *

Kashi-Tan took it upon himself to accompany the family's Jedi guest to the property boundaries, likely as excuse to leave the house while his parents brought down the proverbial roof on their youngest son's head.

"We never plant this field, " he explained. "Mother has some prejudice about it… I've not asked her about it. I think she just likes the wild flowers."

Qui-Gon strode through the thick knee high grass, waving columns of green surmounted by fierce white pennants, the bright martial pomp of some miniature army on the march. The wide expanse had been overgrown by one native varietal, a hardy stalk and monocot leaf supporting gorgeous open-faced heliotropes. Presently every blossom in the waving sea of green faced upward to the triumphant sun, basking in afternoon glory.

"They are beautiful."

Kashi Tan shrugged, betraying a complete lack of interest in things botanical, despite his agreeable manner. "She likes gardens… named us all after traditional plants. Kashi-Tan is a healing herb, Iko-re is supposedly a kind of deciduous tree now extinct, though personally I support the minority opinion that the species is actually a hallucinogenic fungus."

Qui-Gon spared a small smile for this bland derogation of the absent youngest brother. "Your cousin seems to have escaped the curse."

Kashi followed him to the far end of the enclosure, where they sat upon the knee-high perimeter wall. "We all think of him as a brother, you know. My parents adopted him when he was a baby long before Iko and I were born; he officially inherits the estate, too, through primogeniture."

"Does that foster resentment?"

But the youngster shook his head. "What? No – I don't want any part of it. I need to be free to study. And Iko… well, you've met him so you know already. 'Owen is meant to have it."

"I see."

Kashi-Tan sat introspectively for a few moments, then glanced timidly up at the tall Jedi master. "May I ask you something, Master Jinn?"

Amused by the boy's unconscious adoption of himself as an authority figure – for he was sitting quite close, almost knee-to-knee, his whole posture and demeanor wordlessly conveying _docility,_ a deep seated need for guidance in troubling waters – Qui-Gon nodded gravely.

The youth stared out over the sin-kissed meadow. "Do you – do the Jedi – truly believe that peace can be maintained through the maintenance of an outmoded status quo? I mean, is the Order wedded irrevocably to the ideals of the Republic, or to the innumerable accretions that have obscured the basic principles of equality and security beneath the weight of custom?"

The tall man raised a brow. "That sounds ominously like a harangue meant to be delivered from a podium, my young friend. "

The budding scholar blushed violently, an all too familiar sign of distress. "I – I only meant –"

"I imagine your family opines that you think too much."

Kashi Tain's spine stiffened. "Yes," he muttered. "But.. it's important! How can they do other than _think,_ when so much hangs in the balance?"

"Ah. But insight cannot be wrested from its hiding places by thought alone."

The fair-haired lad frowned, squinting a little in the blinding late-day radiance. "But study-"

"Is not the solitary path to understanding. There is a Jedi saying: _the way to wisdom is threefold. Study much. See much. Suffer much."_

His audience did not find this doctrine savory, to judge by the appalled look on his face.

"To which sound counsel I would add a fourth injunction: _exercise much._ A vigorous half-marathon every day would do wonders for your outlook."

This was going too far, however. The youth stood, shoving hands into the rumpled pockets of his soft trousers. "Thank you, Daijon," he said, diffidently enough – only to ruin the effect of his small insouciance with a respectful bow. "i.. I should be headed back."

Qui-Gon waved dismissed him with an amiable wave, chuckling at the disconsolate slump of Kashi's slender shoulders as he tramped back across the field toward the long winding drive to the house. At least the boy would get some fresh air, by default.

* * *

His resulting solitude was of short duration; within minutes of Kashi-Tan's departure, the silence was textured by an aircar's signature repulsordrive thrum. The vehicle pulled to a hovering stop at one side of the field. The pilot – an eccentric old figure in a battered sun-bonnet of antique design, spoke a few inaudible words to his passenger and then waved a friendly hand as the latter person vaulted fluidly over the door panel and sauntered in Qui-Gon's direction. The speeder hummed away up the drive at a leisurely pace, leaving only a ripple of compressed air in its noisy wake.

Obi-Wan waded through the supple green ocean to its midpoint and then paused, face tilting upward to the cerulean vault above as though following the mute gaze of the countless heliotropes. For a moment, the sun's rays scintillated off his white tunics, caught the streaks of amber fire in his hair. Then, with a familiar gesture, he raised one shoulder in an ironic half-shrug and strode forward again, a mettlesome light in his eyes, cloak skirling softly in the light breeze.

"I've brought you a gift," he smirked, tossing a small object at his former mentor.

Qui-Gon caught the dark _muja pit_ in one hand, mouth quirking at one corner. "What's this?"

"Master Yoda says that wisdom is that which remains left over when one has chewed through all the juicier bits of life."

The Jedi master lifted his prize to the sun and examined it closely. "He would know… but I fancy wisdom is a trifle less _sticky_ than this."

"A beggar should not be so fastidious."

The tall man snorted., pocketing the impertinent offering with appropriate decorum. " I shall cherish it always."

This allusion to the innocent and irretrievable past was unfair. Obi-Wan's eyes slid over to the distant line of trees, in a vexed private aside, before meeting Qui-Gon's gaze again. "You know I do not intend any disrespect," he told the older man.

"You merely take exception to my viewpoint." He held up a hand. "As is your prerogative. But, alas, I think I am still right."

"Then we are at an impasse," the young Knight insisted, planting his feet in a battle stance and crossing his arms. "Focus determines reality."

Qui-Gon jutted his chin and regarded his former student critically. "Then one of us is in dire need of a reality check," he retorted.

"Agreed," his counterpart grunted.

They removed their cloaks, folding them neatly side by side upon the quaint little wall. The field was even, presenting no treacherous dips or obstacles; Obi-Wan peered out hungrily over the terrain, sizzling tension in every line of his back and shoulders. Qui-Gon hefted his 'saber hilt in one hand and strode out to the center of the verdant expanse, the white flowers dancing merrily about his knees, waving to and fro beneath the beneficent sun. "Best two of three?" he inquired, politely.

But Obi-Wan was in a _rare_ mood. "Best of _one,_ no quarter, no bounds, and the loser shall consign his lunatic delusions to the nine hells, never to try the patience of his saner and wiser companion again."

The tall man's eyes flashed dangerously. "Those are risky terms, my friend."

"Those are the terms of treaty." The young Knight ignited his sapphire blade and swung it in a lazy circle, one brow arching saucily upward. "If you prefer the innocuous quarrels of senility, Master Jinn, then go play sabaac with the village idiot. "

Qui-Gon's eyes crinkled in dark amusement even as his 'saber blade complemented the threatening growl in his voice. "You insufferable _brat."_

* * *

Though widely acclaimed as one of the Order's most talented and formidable swordsmasters, Qui-Gon was not so complacent as to think his triumph assured. Indeed, with each passing year it became more difficult to scrape a victory from such contests with his former padawan. And he harbored no illusions regarding the future: Obi-Wan at a mere twenty one years of age was still far from his peak – and as the tall man himself approached the end of his sixth decade, what small disparity still existed in their respective skills threatened to tip over the scales of balance into an inverse relation. The day would come when the student surpassed the master, by however small a margin, much to the Force ordained satisfaction of both parties.

But today, he reflected smugly, was not – yet- that day.

Obi-Wan hissed out some scandalous impropriety in Twi"Lek and gritted his teeth, one hand clamped over the livid burn mark on his tunic sleeve.

Today, Qui-Gon could still claim the right of teaching authority. "You should never have implemented Dooku's advice about reverse parrying," he heartlessly advised his former protégé.

His vanquished foe summoned his fallen 'saber back into his grip and clipped it gingerly at his belt, mouth pressed into a pained line. "Mmm_mm_," he complained, staggering back to the sunny wall where their cloaks still lay in tidy bundle.

"We'll put bacta on that shoulder before dinner," the Jedi master decided, with a twinge of guilt. It had been a _lengthy_ and unusually ferocious combat, even by their own personal sparring standards. The field was now scored with gashes and long swaths of singed and smoldering grass, a network of scars that would take several weeks to heal. Scattered white blossoms lay willy-nilly upon the trampled bodies of their stalks, but a greater number still stood primly at attention, furling into delicate trumpets now that evening shadow stretched from the gently molded horizon.

The defeated Knight shrugged awkwardly into his cloak and released a loud breath, fuming from beneath lowered brows. "-_Blast it!"_

"You deserved that. Stop pouting like a slighted debutante."

If looks could kill, he would have been instantly obliterated. As it was, he merely led the way back toward the drive, long legs covering the ground at an easy loping pace. Honor bound to attend the proposed reunion, Obi-Wan fell into step beside him, mantled in a taciturn displeasure, one that faded to uncertain apprehension as they approached the stately house.

It was going to be a dinner to remember.


	15. Chapter 15

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

The Jedi managed to execute a clandestine entry via the back entrance in the south wing , a plain and sturdy doorway issuing onto a disused scullery. Adjacent to this chamber, in the stone-flagged kitchen proper, a droid servitor hummed and putzed about over a fusion stove, presumably making preparations for the evening meal.

An enticing aroma suffused the air. "I'm famished," Obi-Wan declared, automatically.

"Here we are." Qui-Gon patted the scored top of an enormous slab-table with an amused smirk. "Up you go."

"I think I can manage on my own," his friend groused, nonetheless hopping nimbly into place upon the massive counter, legs dangling off the floor like a youngling waiting docilely upon a healer's couch.

"Yes, but that would grant no solace to my guilt-stricken heart," the Jedi master dryly retorted.

His former padawan rolled eyes heavenward, and shrugged out of both tunics, baring his burned arm and shoulder. The skin was puckered and red, scorched black about the edges of the wound, which was mercifully not deep. "And this on _low power,_" he grumbled, poking disconsolately at the painful gash.

Qui-Gon had the good grace to offer an apologetic grimace. "I may have overdone it," he admitted, breaking the steriseal on a bacta capsule. "But your characteristic eloquence is highly _provocative."_

Obi-Wan snorted softly. "So I'm told."

"Think of it this way," the Jedi master suggested, gingerly rubbing the miraculous healing substance into the ghastly burn. "It takes great energy to _inspire_ an intractable will."

"Oh I'm _inspired…_ow! – blast it … wait, someone's coming."

The cook-droid next door chittered in agitation, banging a heavy pot against some solid surface and bleeping out its cybertronic displeasure at an unseen intruder.

"I'm not trying to sneak anything!" a familiar voice protested. "Confound it you neurotic scrap pile, all right, all right! I'm going!"

"Iko-Re," the younger Jedi muttered, sardonically.

A moment later the benighted youth stumbled through the open door into their retreat, covering his head with both hands, as though fending off imminent attack. The servitor shook a thin, articulated manipulator fist at him and whizzed back to its own fiercely guarded domain, still letting loose a string of whistling and bleeping imprecation.

"Same to you," the culprit grumbled, making a face at its retreating back. He turned. "Oh!" His eyes flitted from face to face, uncertain. "Um… oh." A charming smile. "I'll … just be… what in the _hells_ happened to _you?"_

Qui-Gon finished his efficient ministrations. "A slight mishap during 'saber practice."

"Oh." The dark haired lad nodded sagely, feigning indifference. "Right. So, uh… " He sidled a step closer to his long lost relative, tentatively extending a hand and then – when the gesture did not elicit an immediate friendly response – hastily folding himself in a formal bow of greeting. "We've not met. I mean, officially. I mean, I don't even know your name."

"Obi-Wan," the Jedi master supplied.

"Obi-Wan," the man's brother said, forming the syllables carefully, as though testing their flavor and consistency. The name's proper subject dipped his head in greeting, unable to remain discourteously aloof for any longer.

The youth broke into an impish grin. "And I thought _Iko-Re _ was bad!"

Startled, Obi-Wan caught the Jedi master's eye, but the latter person only lifted a brow, signifying equal ignorance.

"So… you're staying for supper, then?" Unsure of his footing, the family's black sheep opted for the direct approach. "Mum's going to drop dead."

Qui-Gon intervened swiftly, hooking one broad hand beneath the lad's elbow and hustling him out the back door. "In light of that likely eventuality, perhaps you should refrain from causing further trouble yourself, hm?"

Not one to take a hint, the adolescent lingered in the threshold a moment longer. "Are you-"

"Make yourself _scarce ,_Iko-Re," the tall man commanded, in a tone which had brought more than one errant padawan to heel. It proved ubiquitously efficacious now; the reprobate brother scampered away without another word, disappearing into the dusk at a brisk clip.

Obi-Wan grimly wrapped his sash back in place and buckled his belt on top. "This should be… _interesting."_

The older man regarded him soberly, a guarded sympathy kindling behind his eyes. "It is for the best."

Dubiety leaked over tightly erected mental shields, but there was no answer but a very wry, and not entirely confident smile. Qui-Gon laid one hand on his former student's shoulder, and squeezed gently. "We should come round the front. If I am certain of one thing, it is that they family will wish to stand on ceremony."

* * *

Tradition was a safeguard and defense against every vicissitude of fortune, an immovable buttress raised high against the raging tides of both change and personal disquiet. On Terajon, there was a tradition for everything, a formulary tracing out the surest path through treacherous terrain.

The Jedi appeared dutifully at the main portal, which stood wide to greet them, blazing lanterns set to either side – actual flames licking at scented oil within the beautifully wrought braziers. Golden warmth pooled at their feet, spilled over the threshold beyond, where the lady of the house stood waiting – erect and self-collected, flowing tranquilly within her appointed role.

"Master Jinn," she addressed the first of her visitors. "You are welcome; come within."

The tall Jedi stepped forward, ducking slightly beneath the lintel, and turning slightly to indicate his companion, mantled like himself in deepest umber cloak and cowl. "Your welcome honors us, Daijisa; allow me to present my companion, Knight of the Jedi Order Obi-Wan Kenobi."

The petite woman's expression fluctuated minutely but did not crumple into disturbing emotion. Ceremony fortified them all against the incursion of sentiment. "Master Kenobi," she said, after a fractional pause. "You are welcome also; come within."

Received as guests, recipients of age-old hospitality, they lowered their hoods and made their hostess a polite double bow. Ue's attention, however, remained riveted upon the younger of the pair. She gazed up at him as though drinking thirstily from some miraculous pilgrimage's font. Ceremony trembled a little, threatening to collapse beneath the weight of memory and long expectation; noting that his former padawan's attention was uncharacteristically distracted by the chandelier, the holo-scape upon the wall, the grain of the floor, the texture of the lady's frock, the mesmerizing shadows cast by the torches outside, Qui-Gon hastened to play diplomat, smoothing the uneasy transition with harmless words.

"Daijon Kenobi and your family are waiting within?"

Ue nodded, collecting her wits instantly. "Please… this way. Leave your cloaks with the droid."

The men kept a patient vigil within the salon adjacent to a formal dining room – Tamasu in steel grey, Atasowen likewise sedately attired, Kashi-Tan in somewhat rumpled but unassuming indigo, and finally Iko-Re, hair tousled and outlandish jacket askew, fidgeting at the end of the line. They knew Qui-Gon already, and greeted him with a simple bow, which was returned in kind. And this exchange completed, the Jedi master stepped back, retiring into shadow at the chamber's edge, relinquishing for this moment, in this place, whatever vestige of mentorship he might still claim.

Obi-Wan cast him a fleeting glance in which the desperation of an unsure twelve year old and the cynical humor of a much older man were equally mixed, and then surrendered to his fate with an outward show of equanimity – though the Force _churned_ with fiercely suppressed upheaval.

"Daijon," he addressed the family's patricarch, inclining his head respectfully.

The silver haired man blinked once or twice, temporarily bereft of words. He extended a shaking hand to rest upon the newcomer's head. "Peace on your coming," he rasped out, with some small difficulty.

Atosowen extended a hand, and grasped his cousin's arm wrist to wrist. "It brings me gladness to see you again," he intoned, solemnly.

A tatter of bright recollection flashed across the Force, edges blurred by time. _Hide and seek, shrieking chases, a gaily painted bauble, a holo-book, childish laughter, shoes too large for tiny feet but much smaller than adult boots, a stolid presence warm and dependable, a name…. fragment of a name…._

"'Owen," Obi-Wan said, surprising himself as much as his relative, who flushed with simple pleasure.

"Kashi-Tan," the next brother peeped, all but speechless in the face of this unexpected appariton, blue eyes wide with confusion, a tell-tale furrow mirroring the small one deepening between his brother's brows. They remained studying each other intently for a long minute, mutually unsettled.

Iko-Re cleared his throat. "I don't require any introduction," he declared, cheerily.

Tamasu's growl of displeasure was lost amid his other sons' exclamations of impatience.

"No," Obi-Wan agreed, dead-pan. "You require a _leash."_

Some of the tension in the room dissipated. Atasowen chuckled; Kashi-Tan gaped; Tamasu's brows shot up to his receding hairline. Ue caught her breath; Qui-Gon braced himself for the inevitable. Still, a display of _alpha status_ was not necessarily the worst ice-breakerin a diplomatic setting. Much depended on history and context.

The youngest son of the family crossed his arms defiantly. "You're not the first one to throw harsh words at me," he sullenly replied.

Obi-Wan's answering smile displayed both dimples, accenting the deadly placidity of his tone. "I might be the first to _back them up."_

Iko-Re swallowed, pressing his lips together in a hard line, and issued no further impertinence.

Playing nervously with the jewel at her throat, Ue felt obliged to intervene before further hostility could erupt. "Shall we dine?"

* * *

Daijon Seniiko was present at table, as well as Daijon Oneku, another old family friend. The strategic inclusion of these two outsiders, as well as that of Qui-Gon himself, did not escape Obi-Wan's notice. He glanced in Ue's direction, aware that a certain delicacy of perception had been involved in the arrangements for tonight's _tete-a-tete._ He would give credit where it was due: diplomacy he understood, if not the motives behind this forced reunion.

When the lady happened to look up as he was studying her, he reflexively raised mental shields even higher, rebuffing any attempt at invasion of his privacy. Qui-Gon, seated beside him at table, cocked a knowing brow, an impalpable _nudge_ at his adamantine defenses swiftly following. He scowled briefly, resenting the subtle reminder, and took a deep centering breath.

Relax. Focus. It was no worse than negotiating a treaty between the factions of an bloody internecine vendetta in the Outer Rims. He had the skill. He could _manage_ this situation. The Force was a powerful ally, and with its help a Jedi could accomplish the seemingly impossible – even maintain his good humor through a _family_ _dinner._ All that was expected of him was polite conversation, and a moderate display of appetite. The universal energy would ebb and flow, and he would ride upon its currents, subtly guided between the perils of rock and wave, out into the ocean of limitless calm, where there was no emotion, no passion, no death and no _–_

"Drink," Qui-Gon commanded, sotto voce, pointedly filling his companion's wine glass to its brim.

He was on the cusp of obeying - only out of good manners, not because Qui-Gon still held any authority over him in any official capacity – when the singular aroma arrested his every thought.

_Oh no._

"Our cuisine is rather unvarying," Ue explained to the gathered company, "At least by Coreworld standards. I ordered something more exotic in honor of the occasion."

The droid server uncovered a magnificent dish of – fancifully garnished, elaborately prepared, and yet still, unmistakable –

"Spicy djo."

It was difficult to distinguish Qui-Gon's flare of dull pain from his own pang of resentment. The Force frothed sloppily with their mutual, completely silent, cry of protest. But naturally they maintained a flawlessly composed exterior, faces betraying nothing but good mannered approval. Obi-Wan cringed at the unintended blasphemy, the blunt knife twisting in a scabbed-over wound. Tahl Uvain's name fluttered bright, like a phlogista moth beating its luminous wings against their stoic façade, and then passed quietly back into the Force's effulgence, swallowed up into totality. The food became once more food, a mere concoction of grain and vegetable, no more than it was. He breathed out.

_Blast it. _ _I hate this._

Qui-Gon actually kicked him under the table.

Fine. He would not hate. He would _behave._

Focus. Center. There is no emotion, there is peace. He took a long draught of wine and braced himself for the unprecedented trial ahead.


	16. Chapter 16

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 16**

There are few tests of patience and wit equal to that posed by the navigation of small talk around a formal dining table, among people who are strong-willed, quick-minded, and sharp-tongued. It would take the fortitude and cunning of a seasoned Jedi to successfully avoid _every _ potential entanglement posed thereby – and even he might not emerge quite _unscathed._

The meal was extended over seven agonizingly sedate and ceremonious courses, each one of which required the renewal of pleasantries and the exchange of information among the participants. Qui-Gon's focus remained centered in the evolving present, his finger on the pulse of the moment, so to speak, while his senses took in the various lavish comestibles and the tidal flow of conversation to every side. This was Obi-Wan's arena, properly speaking; he let the younger Jedi chart his own path through the complex archipelago of his birth family's curiosity, tuning in more attentively here and there, as occasion merited it.

To one side, Kashi –Tan was earnestly soliciting his brother's opinion on a matter of perennial and irresolvable debate. "But if the Grand Vizier had annexed the moons _before_ the schism, he would have consolidated support for the monarchy in the outlying territories, and insured their military support against future uprisings."

The young Jedi was right at home in this historical milieu. "You're forgetting that the moons had already signed covert Acts of Aliance with the Trade Guild – support would only have been emblematic, at best. Their dependency upon shipping lines and the protection offered by the Guild would have prevented them committing to a side in civil conflict. They would have declared neutrality, and been summarily occupied by the first power to land sufficient armaments on the surface."

Daijon Oneku joined in, whole- heartedly. "What about the Jedi? Wasn't there an envoy sent from Coruscant?"

Obi-Wan held up a hand. "The Temple on Coruscant wasn't the center of Jedi culture at that time. And communication gaps existed between the Rims and expansion zone. A local peacekeeper was the only presence anywhere near Teth, and he wasn't able to thwart seventeen generations worth of spite and accumulated desire for vengeance."

"What happened to him?" Kashi-Tan demanded, engrossed in this new detail of the well-known narrative.

"He was captured and beheaded. But his apprentice went missing. Some people surmise that he joined the insurgency after his master's death and became the infamous White Ghost assassin, though there is little evidence to substantiate the theory."

The nascent scholar raised his glass. "Or he might have betrayed his master and joined the Vizier's cause," he suggested academically.

His brother bristled. "No Jedi padawan would _sell_ his own master to a planetary despot."

Oneku - a life-long acquaintance of Tamasu, judging by the two elders' easy familiarity with one another - leaned sideways to interject his own comment again. "You speak for _every_ member of your Order without exception? That is confidence indeed; some might say, presumption."

Obi-Wan dipped his head. "Presumption is predicated upon ignorance. I am not idly theorizing."

It was Tamasu who picked up the thread of this discourse, deftly weaving it into the tapestry of his own debate with Seniiko and Atasowen. "What's that? He's right: _Loyalty_ is not an abstraction, but a vital passion. It is the only thing certain in a time of unrest. If you wish to know who will serve the Stewardship's interests best in the galactic senate, look at deeds rather than words. Anyone can protest his patriotism, but who among the candidates has ever chosen the common good when his own interests are at stake?"

His nephew spluttered indignantly and launched into a defense of his preferred candidate. Seniiko, to the patriarch's other side, fanned the embers of their dispute with impish enjoyment.

Obi-Wan wisely excused himself from this petty strife by transferring his attention to Ue, who importuned him for details regarding Jedi apprenticeship. His succinct replies only seemed to provoke further questions, inquiries about initiate dormitories, crèche masters, friendships among younglings, classes and training, discipline, exhibition tournaments, missions, interstellar travel, any and every subject imaginable. The interrogation stopped just short of particulars, but skirted round the borders of such prurience until the young Jedi was fairly squirming where he sat.

Qui-Gon smiled at his discomfiture, shaking his head at his young friend's stalwart refusal to divulge a single truly _personal_ detail.

Meanwhile, Iko-Re seized the opportunity to pose a burning question of his own. "What about the Code?"

"What about it?" The Force rippled with vexation, but the unfortunate youth was blind to his peril.

"Is it true? About a Jedi shall not know love? I mean, are you really all celibate?"

"Iko-Re!" his mother exclaimed, horrified at the appalling breach of drawing-room manners. "You-"

But her tirade was cut short by the droid servitor, which needed to consult with her urgently on the matter of dessert and how many guest beds to make up for the night. While the lady was distracted, Iko-Re leaned in further, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Come on, tell me the truth: no women _at all?"_

Obi-Wan lifted one brow, icily reticent.

The tactless youth was not to be dissuaded from his folly. "Honestly though: have you ever_ been with_ anyone?"

His brother's eyes narrowed. "Have you ever _killed_ anyone?"

Iko-Re snapped his mouth shut and shrank into his chair, stupefied into welcome silence.

Dessert was served, not a moment too soon.

* * *

When the meal was at long last concluded, the party disintegrated into disparate smaller gatherings, a gentle dissolution orchestrated by Ue's tactful word and gesture; within minutes she had adroitly maneuvered Atasowen into taking Kashi-Tan back to the university, shooed her husband and his two elder friends into the study, where – she explained – they would discuss politics and history into the wee hours of the night, and demanded that Iko-Re sally into the nearest township to fetch some minor ingredient needed for breakfast. The latter person's protestations that the droids could do it, and that he wasn't allowed to fly anyhow, his pilot's license having been suspended by the local magistrate some months ago, were blithely dismissed. He was commissioned to go immediately on pain of further punishment, and the transportation issue resolved by sending Qui-Gon with him as personal chauffeur and escort.

Intimidated into submission for the third time that evening, the upstart teen moped his way out the door, casting melting looks at his mother as he went..

"Thank you, Master Jinn," she murmured as the tall Jedi donned his cloak. "I apologize in advance for any trouble he may cause."

"I assure you, Madame, I have domesticated far more troublesome beasts."

Ue's mouth curved into an amused smile and then froze, as the implications hit home. She twisted her necklace agitatedly. "I – I thank you also for whatever persuasive influence you may have brought to bear since we last spoke… I cannot express the peace it brings my heart to simply _see_ him, just this once."

He nodded, and took his leave, disappearing into the moist night on Iko-Re's heels.

Which left the lady of the house conveniently alone with her firstborn child, hoping no doubt to steal a few moments' private conversation.

* * *

"She doesn't really need karo-gan nectar," Iko-Re observed, leaning back casually in the passenger seat of his father's expensive speeder.

"I realize this," Qui-Gon assured him, placidly holding a steady course toward their destination.

"Probably wanted to get me out of the way so she could corner Obi-Wan and grill him," the perspicacious youngster added.

His Jedi chaperone grimaced slightly. 'Indeed."

"Where're we going, then?"

"You'll see."

Impatient, Iko-Re shifted in his seat. "So…. You _raised_ him, right? That's how it is, having an apprentice?"

They skimmed over field s and between orchards, keeping a low altitude. "You may think of it that way."

The answer did not satisfy, but the inquiry was swiftly overshadowed its natural concomitants. "Well… did he know about us? All this time, I mean?"

Ah. The tall man shook his head. "NO. Not all this time. Jedi younglings are raised without unnecessary distractions- and you will understand that familial ties can be a distraction. Later in life, it is sometimes salutary to reconnect, briefly. But no, I think the encounter is as … disquieting to him as it is to you."

Iko-Re slumped further in his seat, a poorly articulated misery radiating from him in waves. "He thinks I'm useless scum."

"...Are you?"

The dark-haired lad straightened suddenly, as though this simple question had never been put to him before. "No! Well… I don't know. Am I, Master Jinn?"

He brought the air-car down into a cleft between two sharp hill crests, and descended the far slope into another vast, cultivated valley. City lights sparkled in the distance. "You chafe against the boundaries of your present existence and flail helplessly for lack of purpose. From that position, it is possible to devolve into villainy or dissolution. But that is not the only oath open to you."

"Yes it is. I'm not responsible and staid like 'Owen, and I'm not brainy like Kashi, and I'm not a kriffing _Jedi_ like my other brother. Oh, sorry, no offense. It's just that I'm _nothing_ special. I don't have a …a … vocation! I just want to live! To see the galaxy, go places, do _real_ things."

"Have you ever considered joining the Republic Service Corps?"

A hearty snort. "My father threatens me with that all the time."

"Simply because a thing is posed as a threat, does not make it a bad idea. For instance, I have often and repeatedly threatened to saddle your brother with a student of his own, to his professed horror – and yet, there would in truth be nothing more beneficial for him."

"My mother would not approve. She… wants to keep us home, forever. Maybe because… I don't know."

But it was obvious he did, and that this constituted the real heart of the problem. "She also wishes you to be happy, I am certain. And sadly, those two desires cannot always be consonant. In the end, you must choose for the greater good, and accept what share of suffering this entails."

* * *

Obi-Wan was not stupid; he instantly comprehended that the lady had abused the prerogatives of her status as _host_ in much the same way Qui-Gon was wont to abuse the privileges of mentorship. He rubbed at his injured shoulder, reflecting that Ue's transgressions at least had the merit of gentility. He had not long to linger upon the comparison, however, for within moments of Qui-Gon's departure he found himself sequestered in the small reception parlor, alone with his… _mother._

Deep centering breath.

She stepped closer, hovering just past the border of his cherished Temple-bred personal space, somewhere on the periphery between formal-acquaintance and intimate-fellow, a subtle and unintentional violation that pushed him slightly off balance. It would be dreadfully rude to step backward, so he endured the uncomfortable proximity, aware that theirs had _once_ been a much closer relationship, a thing foreign and yet native, forbidden yet innate.

The Force shimmered treacherously, threatening to lift the mercifully opaque veil from the past. He pushed the welling recollection aside, making way for the _present._ "Thank you for your hospitality, Madame."

Ceremony kept them balanced in precarious equilibrium. "Thank you for coming."

"I hope we may serve Terajon and the Republic by our presence here."

She was not duped by the evasion. "Your presence honors this house… and brings great pride to my heart."

This was not…. He shifted, weighing his next words. "I would not wish for my actions, or my person, to be the center of such attention. A Jedi serves without thought of self."

Her eyes never left his face. "I know this; that service begins with such a selfless action, a sacrifice made by others entirely. Would you grudge me the satisfaction of seeing the fruits of such … service?"

Memory swelled, obscene and demanding its own unique tribute. He ruthlessly clamped down upon the vision, clinging to the present moment, to the _now, _in which that choice was long ago made and done, a fact and no longer an awful possibility. "It… they stand before you, humble though they may be."

_There is nothing more to know. _

And yet she lingered.

He steeled himself. It was kinder to speak the truth, sometimes. "I cannot cultivate any attachment, now or ever."

Her face blanched, betraying pain.

"I am sorry." Heart twisting, he impulsively took her hand in his own, clasping the delicate fingers gently.

A mistake; physical contact opened a floodgate somewhere in the Force's turgid depths. The present crumbled into myriad realities, a spectral refraction of memory and experience, a dangerous abyss of need and want, longing and denial. He must have made a sound, for the lady startled out of his light grasp and withdrew a pace.

"Forgive me," he stammered, the sight of her pain strangely compelling, a thing that _should not matter,_ a bondage and claim from which he ought to be exempt.

Ue's bosom rose and fell, heaving with the tempestuous Force, and then she dropped a curtsey. "It is late, and I put great demands upon you. Please, rest well here." Her gaze lingered upon him another eternal few seconds before she retreated upon her dignity, leaving only the faint scent of fine linen and muja blossom perfume in the warm air behind her.


	17. Chapter 17

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

"Well, _that_ was good."

A Jedi did not succumb to bitterness, so Obi-Wan determined that his present blend of guilt and discomfort was actually a percent solution of indigestion. Because surely the spicy djo, and the copious quantity of wine poured into his glass by Qui-Gon, were not sitting well with him now.

He hesitated, wondering what a _dutiful son_ would do in his position, and then deciding that he could not hope to assume the responsibilities of a station so foreign to his own. Tamasu and his friends' voices could be heard, raised in amicable debate within the adjacent study; a comfortable bed – which would ensure no repose – waited him upstairs. Neither option appealed.

In truth, what he would _like_ to do would be this: to run headlong out the front door in search of solitude, a hiding place immune to trespass by older, noisier, tumultuous people. Before his mind's eye there flashed the images of many such places, a parade of memory long buried, the traces of a former existence still echoing faintly in the Force, silent until now but resonating quietly like a tuning fork pitched specifically to his presence.

To be so gifted was sometimes a _burden._

_Terrifying._

A recollection. Or vision.

_The holo-book is set upon a high shelf, far out of his reach. Even straining both hands upward and bouncing upon his toes, he cannot possibly grasp at its glimmering spine. He has seen the volume open; it contains images of beautiful things, winged and furry, scaled and sinuous, small and bejeweled. The tiny black-armored bug that rolls into a ball is there, and other things he has never seen, bloated whaladons and ravenous clawed monsters and soft-eyed foolish beasts with split feet. He badly wants to peruse the gallery of wonders again, and knows how to touch the book's surface to make the pages scroll by in glittering procession, each gorgeous illustration accompanied by a block of indecipherable text, writing which he will learn to interpret later._

_For now, he only wants the pictures. And for that he must have the book. Footfalls sound in the passage; desperately, he supposes that the precious object of his longing will be confiscated, or a ban imposed upon its use. This is unjust; he will not break it, nor grubby its plates with his unwashed fingers. He checks his hands to be quite sure and then wipes them on his short trousers, a frantic pit forming in his belly._

"_Bibi, what are you getting into now?" a vexed and childish voice demands, from the corridor just outside. _

_The book will be taken away. He is sure of it. He reaches his hands up one last time, fingers splayed out rigid with effort. Only it is not merely his arms that extend outward in desire, it is his whole self, and suddenly there is no distance between the shelf and his hands. The volume lifts, wobbles, and comes sailing into his grip because it wants to be with him as badly as he wants to have it. Not-grubby fingers close about the thin shape, and he smiles, a radiant joy of accomplishment bursting beneath his ribs. _

_A gasp of surprise – and fear – sounds from the doorway. "How did you do that?"_

_Do what? He spins, beholding in his familiar companion's face a look of sheerest terror. What has he done? Was it bad to make the book come? Was it bad to touch it with his whole self and not just his hands? Is he bad? Why is the other child scared? Is he frightening? He does not want to be frightening, he wants to be good._

_No answers are forthcoming; the other boy has darted away, hustling down the hall in horrified disbelief. "Ue-jon, Ue-jon!" he cries out, leaving an ugly scarlet smear across the world. _

_He clutches the holo-book to his chest, which tightens with panic, and struggles in vain to comprehend the magnitude of this sin, this fearful thing which he has unwittingly unleashed upon his peaceful world._

_Terrifying._

He blinked away the baleful incursion upon his serenity. The past _no longer was. _And Jedi powers – nascent or developed, in service of childish whim or noblest cause, were not an occasion of _fear._ Not in the healthy. Not among those who understood. Who were yoked in the same service, set also apart.

His commlink pinged, signaling an off-world transmission routed through the local satellite channels.

"Kenobi."

"Ah. And here I thought you might have been too _embroiled_ in nostalgia to answer." Dooku's drawling irony was strangely welcome, a bracing and bitter cure for melancholy.

"I think I can extricate myself from any undue entanglements."

The Shadow chuckled, understanding perfectly. He himself made periodic pilgrimages to Serreno, his own birth world, where – he gave his young acquaintance to understand – he was obliged to withstand repeated and cleverly applied pressure to resume his hereditary seat, a powerful and affluent baronetcy. "Allow me to provide you another lead in your investigation."

"I would be indebted."

Dooku sniffed. "In that regard we are , I think, past the point of discrete tabulation, my young friend."

This was a less palatable aspect of the Sentinel's friendship. Obi-Wan released a short breath of resentment and focused on _the mission. "_What have you discovered?"

"The late Senator Mushibi, while stationed on Coruscant as legislative representative to his homeworld, also indulged in several personal holidays a year. His travels in the last tenmonth took him to Alderaan, Karshuu Major, Chandrila, and Naboo, the last journey completed just prior to his untimely demise."

"Pleasure-voyages? Tourism?"

The senior Jedi snorted. "Nothing worthy of voyeurism. He participated in academic conferences held by a small and – I might wager, histrionically romantic - historical society styling itself the Sons of Liberty."

"Oh." The information was relevant, or Dooku would not have bothered to share it.

Manifestly enjoying his confusion, the Sentinel paused dramatically before dropping the other shoe. "Such dilettantism can be a dangerous avocation."

"What do you mean?" He was far too distracted by certain personal developments to maintain a civil tone.

"Simply that the wealthy and irresponsible have a habit of meddling in affairs far beyond their ken. I suspect the late Senator stumbled upon information better left in obscurity, and lacked the good sense to let a sleeping gundark lie."

Obi-Wan shifted impatiently. he didn't have time for games. "Your point, Master?"

"Simply this: enmity is often extended by association, however obscure or irrelevant the seeming connection. Whatever Mushibi was dabbling in, is it not unlikely that he should disseminate gossip concerning his affairs among his coterie of doddering compatriots? These decaying aristocrats always have a set of eccentric playmates equally besotted with their private obsessions and too senile to comprehend the realities underlying them. If Mushibi say, uncovered a seditious plot, then doubtless a horde of other idle and prurient old fools have been implicated in his folly."

Silence. Hitherto, Obi-Wan had always _enjoyed_ the Sentinel's caustic wit, or at least matched him pace for pace.

"Forgive me," Dooku murmured, reading him as easily as an open holobook. "I sometimes forget how very many lessons still lie between you and wisdom; such is the mirage created by precocity."

Smarting at the back-handed compliment, the young Knight decided to end the interview before the exchange took a regrettable turn. "Thank you, Master. As always, your insight is invaluable."

* * *

"So… _where_ are we going?"

Tenacity was a genetic marker for this line, Qui-Gon noted. "The thugs who were sent to attack you at the hospitality house were all off-worlders; this planet is strikingly species-homogenous. I doubt three such exotic characters could blend in anywhere but a spaceport . There are only three on the Stewardship; that which we used to arrive is limited to passenger traffic and has no industrial cargo docking facilities. Of the two remaining, this one lies in the direction Obi-Wan observed his captured probe fleeing. I would be very surprised indeed if we do not discover our disreputable friends' headquarters here."

Iko-Re's enthusiasm for the expedition waned visibly. "We're going to go talk to mobsters or terrorists?" he peeped.

"With any luck, yes."

"Um…"

The Jedi master laid on more speed, anxious to arrive at their destination and make inquiries. The night blurred against the viewport, howled past them in ascending chords.

"Uh…. I don't know if I, ah…"

"You expressed a desire to _live_ a little – for stimulation in excess of that provided by account-keeping and scholarship. Is this not 'real' enough for your taste?"

Tamasu Kenobi's youngest son clutched the sides of his seat, biting his lower lip. There was no cure for adolescent ennui better than that accomplished by taking the bombastic complaints of youth at face value. The unfortunate victim of this direct-approach therapy was looking markedly paler beneath his unruly thatch of dark hair.

"I just… won't they be _dangerous?"_

"Presumably," Qui-Gon placidly replied.

The port town appeared over the crest of the last hill, picked out in a glimmering web of lights, a diamond tracery of pinpoint luminance draped over the dark landscape like a beaded shawl. They dipped down the nearest slope, skimming its rocky face in a sharp descent toward the outlying spaceport and its cluster of service buildings and surrounding mercantile district.

"Now," the tall man addressed his reluctant accomplice," Suppose I wished to _have a good time_ in this sector. Where might I find an appropriate venue?"

"What makes you think _I _ would know?" Iko-Re demanded, somewhat querulously.

"We must all dedicate our unique talents to the common good," the Jedi master tranquilly informed him. "However ambiguous a benison those gifts may be."

The boy scowled, an alarming mimicry of his brother's favorite fulminating look, and shifted in vexation. "Fine. There's a club on the east side of the port– the Nose Dive. But I can't get in anymore; I've lost my fake ID."

"You mean it was confiscated when your piloting license was suspended."

Iko-Re blushed a deep burgundy red. "I was just _speeding_ a little. The police here are so bloody –"

"Don't say it," Qui-Gon advised, curtly.

"I don't think this is a good idea," his callow acquaintance insisted. "I have a bad feeling about it."

Which only elicited a very wry chuckle indeed.

* * *

He thought briefly of joining the triumvirate of elders in their study, craving perhaps the distraction of abstract debate, the undemanding camaraderie of masculine company – but after inadvertently wounding Ue's feelings, he felt ill prepared to face her spouse on congenial terms. It simply wouldn't be _gentlemanly. _ A perverse part of him resented the simplicity of Iko-Re's position. Doubtless the natural result of such trespass upon his mother's feelings by the upstart youth would be a thorough if ultimately harmless chastising by the paterfamilias. But it was beyond unlikely that old Tamasu would dare to upbraid his _Jedi_ offspring for such disrespect.

A Jedi Knight did not require such admonitions to basic courtesy.

"Blast it!" He gripped his 'saber's hilt, quashing a second and even more ridiculous desire – the need to have Qui-Gon here to do the honors. It had been _years_ since the tall master had laid down the law to his wayward apprentice, his displeasure more devastating than any stern discipline imposed.

"_Blast it."_ He was not a padawan anymore. What was wrong with him? Must his mere presence here under _this_ star-forsaken roof somehow command his devolution into sniveling _infant?_

He wasn't having any of _that._ Mouth thinning into an obstinate line, he mounted the stairs to the upper level, in quiet pursuit of the grieving lady. A soft knocking on what he knew – somehow, by Force-aided intuition or uncomplicated memory – to be the door to her private chamber.

Ue opened the portal herself, face streaked by fresh moisture but demeanor calm and collected, impeccably composed. She was forged pure and hard, this woman: hammered by countless generations' expectation and custom, moulded into a role of example and responsibility, accustomed to suppressing personal feeling in the face of _duty._

It had been _she,_ he understood now, that had made the _first_ sacrifice, that which had occasioned and demanded every subsequent renunciation, every hard-earned scar of wisdom since.

"Madame," he said, hoarsely. "My words were uncompassionate. I meant no offense, and I crave your pardon."

She gazed up at him, the lines in her fair skin more apparent in the warm highlight glow cast by the room's lamps. "When we met three years ago," she answered, gravely, " I thought, perhaps, that you had your own share of joy. Different – strange to me – but nonetheless…. And now, I wonder. What has happened to you? What have they wrought upon you?"

_They_ meaning the Order. What had happened? Tahl's agonizing demise, Qui-Gon's apostasy and abandonment, Dooku's mentorship, Melida-Daan, horror beyond reckoning, the darkness within… and rescue, vindication, triumph. He had aged a decade in so short a space, outstripped his innocence by a parsec and a half. What _had_ happened?

"I…"

"I did not rip out my own soul in hopes that yours also would be eviscerated. I gave you over to a better _life,_ not to – to.." Ue gestured helplessly with one hand, eyes pleading with him to give assurance, to dispel some private and treacherous nightmare.

The room was dense with compressed recollection, impalpable ghosts crowding in on all sides. He did not _have_ a mother. His mother was _dead, _burned upon a pyre of acceptance, of sacrifice. His mother was a thing of the _past,_ dwell not on the past, grieve not for the past, a Jedi has no place no self no history.

"Attachment is _forbidden_." _You know this. You chose it, also. You accepted, consented, acted in full knowledge. _

"I do not ask for an…. attachment," she murmured, solemnly. "I only ask to _see_ you. For one moment. Why this discourteous cold mask? Have they taken not only your heritage but also your _heart?"_

He shook his head, pulse rising upon the Force's churning currents, chest closing like a vise around his centering breath. Suffering, always suffering. His coming, his going, his coming again – every step of this delicate dance an occasion of pain, a test he was doomed to _fail._ There was no apology abject enough to _make amends, _ to restore the lost primordial unity. He sent down on one knee, as a formal supplicant. "Daijisa…"

But here words failed him. There was _no_ healing the rift, no_ reunion _ possible.

Ue brushed a hand against his cheek, a gossamer-fine benediction.

The long-ago scream of parting- or birth- welled up from that deepest oblivion to which it had been consigned, hammering at adamantine gates. His hand slipped down to rest upon the 'saber's pommel, anchor and foundation in the Light, and he ducked his head, jaw clenched hard shut. He was Jedi. He would not shame himself.

The lady, however, was not subject to the same discipline. Her voice rasped softly, syllables falling like sweet spring rain. "I was wrong. They have not taken it. Forgive me, also, _daiji-aso."_

It was strange, then, to be embraced like this, his face buried in the folds of her dress, still upon one knee, her arms encircling his shoulders and head, the moment spinning out into a limbo between greeting and farewell, joy and sorrow, a mutual and bittersweet coda before destiny's unpredictable surge carried them apart again, possibly forever.


	18. Chapter 18

**Legacy II**

_**Author's**** Note:** __the honorifics in this tale have sparked some curiosity, so here is a brief explication of meanings. The suffix "-jon" (which appears in the planet's name, and in Atasowen's address of his aunt as Ue-jon) is a respectful addition somewhat similar to "-san" in Japanese. The root "Daij-" means house, or household, which in this ancient society is the sacred foundation of order, and the base unit of civilization. __Thus "Daijon" is head of household or more loosely, honored one. It is applied to all elders, men especially, but also to the female Minister Ichiru inasmuch as she holds a public role as "head of house" to the entire planet. It can also mean father, depending on context, and the boys address Tamasu in this manner. "Daijisa" refers specifically to a woman under her own roof, in her role as center of the household/family. Translated it comes to lady of the house, my lady, or even mother. "Daiji-aso" means child-of-the-house, one the daijisa recognizes and claims as her own. F__or further details on etiquette and variations upon these archaic titles, please refer to the Temple Archives galactic cultures database._

* * *

**Chapter 18**

The Nose Dive's main entrance was barricaded by two Klatooinian bouncers, who guffawed heartily at Iko-Re's assertion that he was of age.

"He's with me," the Jedi master informed them. "It's not a problem," he added, making the subtle gesture of compulsion with his right hand.

Impressed, his companion sauntered in on his heels, taking in the scene with jaded eyes. "Used to be nicer here… whole neighborhood's going to the akks. Too many offworlders."

"There are planets where such sentiment would be likely to spark a street brawl, if not worse," the tall man upbraided him. "Expand your horizons, if you are so desirous of a wider purview in life."

"I just meant… never mind. Can I buy you a drink? I have lots of credits.. they didn't cut off my allowance yet. Too distracted, I'd wager, what with all the unexpected arrivals of late."

But Qui-Gon did not appear to be listening. "There," he said, pointing to a cluster of scantily clad regulars of the feminine variety. "Ingratiate yourself at that table and find out whether there have been any unusual characters loitering about here in the last week. This is a likely place for a crime organization to pick up contractors to do an "odd job" or two ."

"Like the filth that tried to assault me."

"Yes. Off you go."

Iko-Re swaggered away to fulfill this commission, and proved to have no difficulty in currying the attention and favor of his intended informants. His natural charisma and looks gave him immediate entrée – and if he chose to _swat_ one of the most voluptuous of the company upon her generous hindquarters, the Jedi master merely reflected that here, at least, was a task at which the younger brother most certainly displayed more skill than his Jedi-trained sibling.

He ensconced himself at a small table in one corner and watched the flotsam and jetsam of spaceport life wash in and out of the bar. Travellers, salesmen, importers, deck managers, mechanics, mercantile ships' officers – mostly human but here and there a person of other species – a steady wave of custom that left a grungy litter of debris above tideline: credit chits, empty glasses, half-devoured appetizers, a staleness in the atmosphere. Iko –Re laughed and entertained his new coterie of admirers, time wore on, the evening traffic slowed to a trickle of _serious_ drinkers, those that wished to forget not only their woes but their names and histories as well.

The dark haired youth slid into a chair opposite, mildly disheveled. "Do I get a prize for successful reconnoitering?" he inquired, deploying mirthful eyes and deeply grooved dimples to best effect.

"You get to hide behind _my _excuses when you arrive home just before dawn," the Jedi master replied, blandly. "What have you discovered?"

"Oh." The boy smoothed back his thick fall of hair with one hand. "They remembered those disreputable layabouts who came after me – the Duros, the Dressalian and that other ugly troglodytic fellow. Apparently the three of them conversed with another outworlder – nasty fellow, I gather_._ Nobody liked him and nobody got his name."

"Any more specific description?"

The youth spread his hands."Just that he was creepy. Human, I assume. The proprietor has no particular recollection of him, but the girls swear he was here on more than one occasion, just lingering by the back corner, interviewing people here and there."

The tall man tilted his head to one side, thoughtful. The Force eddied and swirled murkily, as it was wont to do in such dens of salacity, but no unusual signature threaded its way through the textured dissonance. Whoever the stranger had been, he had disappeared again into the complex mélange of spaceport life without leaving a discernible impression.

Evil – true Darkness – was as subtle as incense, and as pervasive. Dooku had taught him this long, long ago.

But surely that was _paranoid?_ They were in search of a radical political or terrorist group, nothing more invidious. He sighed, reflecting that _here_ Obi-Wan's innate attunement to the unifying Force would be a distinct asset. They would consult later. In the meanwhile…

"Shall we, then? There are other such establishments in the area. Let us see whether this elusive character has been sighted elsewhere."

Iko-Re's blue eyes widened in delight. "I'm going on a pub crawl with a Jedi master?"

"For the first and last time in your life, young one."

* * *

He dreamt of Tahl.

"_What have you got there, Padawan?"_

_The volume is antique, something dredged up from the Archives' storage vaults. A panoply of exotic beasts populates its inner domain, early explorer's sketches, partial holo-recreations of flora and fauna sighted on far flung worlds. He sprawls at ease, idly searching for the Vetruvian lantern tree, the phlogista moth, the sarlaac bush, the Gantuuan of myth, the macabre worm that invaded its victims' brains via their olfactory or aural orifices and took over their minds…_

"_That's utter rubbish," he snorts, showing her the accompanying text for this last fictional monster._

"_Only from a certain point of view. It's rather an apt metaphor for propaganda campaigns, or the effect of a cunning deception upon well-intentioned but unsuspecting recipients."_

_He loves Tahl's dry humor. "Or apprenticeship," he smirks, snuggling deeper into the comfortable nest of blankets. With the elegant, golden-skinned Jedi master sitting beside him, he can forget the healers' ward encroaching on all sides, ignore the diffuse ache in his limbs. "Mm."_

"_Let me see that." She filches the tome from his loosening grasp, avidly perusing its contents herself. "Stars' end… the Halifaxi vulture is inseminated by the wind? People will believe anything. Don't tell me Qui brought you this nonsense for leisure reading?"_

"_Master confiscated my history books," he sulks, starting to drift into the radiant Force, a coracle awash upon the gentle tide of her compassion, harbored from wave and storm by her sheltering presence. "…more… Living …."_

_Abruptly - absurdly - Master Kol -Bretta is present, clad in long professorial robes, cranial horns peaked and sharp, eyes solemn._

"_Recite," this apparition commands. "Initiate Kenobi."_

_The earliest lessons were committed to memory, receptacles for subsequently acquired understanding. He dutifully intones the words. The Force is origin and destination. The Force is also the journey between. The former is unity, the latter is life. We are luminous beings, not this gross matter; when we remember this we are one with the Force. We come to serve; when we remember this we live in the Force. In the Unifying Force we have no place, no history, no self; in the Living Force we are born and die within the cycle of becoming, the wheel of identity. In birth and in death alike we flow from light unto light; therefore we say there is no death. There is only the Force._

"_And what of attachment?" Master Kol Bretta prompts, unrelenting._

_His mind is a blank. He is lost in that timeless emanation, light spilling into light and back again. All things are one._

"_Attend, youngling," the stern master chides. "What of attachment?"_

_He grasps at Tahl's hand, seeking anchorage, but she melts into effulgence, flowing between his fingers like incense, like fleeting wind, and dissolves into impalpable chiming, reed bells singing humble polyphony outside the window…. garden… house…_

"_Master," he laments, but she is gone, and so is Kol Bretta with his humorless eyes, and so are all things but the reed chimes, plinking mournfully in the distance._

They still played a hollow chorus outside the window when he opened his eyes a moment later. With the emotionless abstraction unique to the borderline between sleep and waking, he noted that they were tuned to a pentatonic scale, haunting and siren-like.

Footfalls creaked on the stairs nearby, the heavy tread of weary men going at last to their rest. Tamasu and his guests, retiring after many hours' discussion . A warbling droid voice inquired whether any further service would be required this evening, and was dismissed; doors hissed open and shut; the girders and beams of the ancient structure popped and groaned; high above, a thranctill keened high and lonely, circling warily in the starless sky.

He lay sleepless for many hours afterward, brooding, and rose before dawn to seek true repose in meditation.

* * *

Qui-Gon arrived back at the estate a little after sunrise; grey clouds had descended once more, promising further rain and muting the morning's glory to a twilit hue. Birds sang sedately in their perches, but otherwise the world held its collective breath. Only the speeders' drives overlaid the silence with a high pitched whine, but even this died away as he brought the vehicle to a standstill inside the adjacent outbuilding serving as garage.

"Wake up," he nudged his traveling companion.

Iko-Re mumbled some obscenity and cracked open eyes gummy with sleep. "…Home?"

The Jedi master nodded, springing lightly over his side of the aircar. His boots crunched on fine gravel as he led the way back to the house, hesitant to wake the family at this early hour. He headed round the back, hoping to find the kitchen droid hard at work and the scullery door unlocked.

"Stars, I need caff," his companion griped, stumbling along doggedly at his heels. "All that for _nothing."_

The expedition had not been a success, from a certain point of view. Their protracted exploration of every bar and officer's club in the spaceport's vicinity had resulted in several more confirmations that a non-descript, yet eerie, person of humanoid species had been sighted in the area repeatedly over the last weeks – but not one witness could give further information or any clue as to his present whereabouts. Iko-Re, craving adventure and perhaps even the _danger _ he had initially professed to dread, had been crestfallen by this turn of events.

Qui-Gon was, by contrast, closer to disturbed.

New Dawn at this juncture in the investigation seemed a far more clandestine and prudent operation than most political idealist organizations of its purported ilk; this faceless villain suggested something more threatening than a mere insurgency or fanatic splinter cell. He had never liked dealing with an enemy that would not show himself; such games of artifice and stealth were much more in Dooku's line… or Obi-Wan's, if he cared to admit the fact.

His reflection was arrested by the sight of aforesaid young Jedi _upside down_ – on one arm – in the center of the herb garden's maze, obviously running through a favored set of moving meditation exercises. Iko –Re goggled for a few moments at the extreme gymnastic acumen of his sibling and then darted into the kitchens, presumably in search of a potent stimulant. If the Force was with him, neither parent would notice his scandalously late return and he could seamlessly insert himself into whatever quaint morning tableau unfolded in the house's interior, rendering complicated explanations unnecessary.

Qui-Gon settled onto the artful wrought bench at the garden's center, propping one boot upon the opposite knee and spreading his arms along the back of his chosen throne. "Good morning," he addressed his former padawan's back.

"Decent people would call this _night,"_ the younger Jedi remarked, cautiously shifting weight to his other arm. "But I will make a rhetorical concessions for the present audience."

The tall man smiled a bit and bobbed his foot up and down. "I sense a… shifting in the currents," he observed, slyly.

"That's just the barometer dropping, Master. The elderly are commonly afflicted with such aches and pains when the atmospheric pressure drops."

_Brat. _ A silence in which they both breathed in the crisp moisture-laden air, the influx of life all about them. Obi-Wan complacently backflipped onto his feet and sank into an exaggerated drop-stance, stretching the pose into a perfect asana and holding it. "And where were you all night?" he inquired, in his turn.

An airy wave. "Oh, carousing with Iko-Re into the small hours. We visited every cantina within a klick of the industrial spaceport."

He was rewarded with a sardonic squint. "…Really? Do you miss having a padawan so acutely that you feel compelled to set about corrupting the innocent youth of any given planet? Shameful."

"I should hardly characterize the rascal in question as _innocent youth."_

Obi-Wan's brows rose, conceding the point. "Yes. Well."

"He is after all, a blood relative of _yours."_

The reminder did not rankle as it had previously. The young Knight merely shrugged. "Indulge me: find your next pathetic life form somewhere not so close to home."

An interesting choice of words. Qui-Gon's heart lightened, delighting in the playful exchange. He chuckled darkly. "I've learned my lesson at your hands: I haven't any stamina remaining to handle _another_ padawan."

Obi-Wan rose in one fluid motion and wagged an admonitory finger at him. "Don't look at _me, _ either." He summoned his discarded cloak into his hands and flowed gracefully into its voluminous folds. "Well? Has the new acolyte prepared caff yet?" He strode jauntily across the miniature borders of the maze, headed for the back door.

But before he had progressed three paces, Iko-Re appeared inside the frame, eyes wide and face pallid. "We have a problem," he said. "Come see what's on the holo-net."


	19. Chapter 19

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

Iko Re thrust a hand at the kitchen's ceiling-mounted holo feed. "M80 likes to watch Core-world reality show drivel… Big World Little Droids, Krankashians, Cyberchef, all that sort of idiocy – but when I switched to local news, _this_ came up."

The household's humble cook-bot sniffed acrimoniously, and continued chopping tubers at breakneck speed, while the Jedi peered critically at the live-action coverage unfolding above the projector plate.

"This is Boku-Yan Kochire, reporting direct from the University of Terajon, Stewards' College," the prim journalist in the foreground intoned. The holo-cam shifted focus to a disorderly scene behind her, highlighting a milling crowd of students outside a stately library colonnade. "A political protest organized by university graduate students took an ugly turn this morning when two explosive devices were set off within the academic precincts. Both devices appear to have been planted in Rishima Do library; current status reports indicate that although many people are trapped within the collapsed portion of the structure, there are no serious casualties yet discovered. Police have retained the protesters for questioning and have made several arrests on suspicion of terrorism. Meanwhile, hostility between the progressive faction and other student political groups has escalated to riot status. You can see the special peace brigade arriving on site, and – "

"There's Kashi-Tan!" the firebrand's brother yelped, pointing to a slim figure being hustled away by the new influx of caped and helmeted guards. "And they think_ I'm_ trouble!"

Qui-Gon scowled at the holo-footage, tugging at his short beard. Obi-Wan's mouth thinned pensively.

"I'll tell my mum," Iko Re volunteered, unhelpfully, and dashed away to fulfill this self appointed commission, the prospect of diverting parental wrath onto his sibling outweighing any other consideration.

Qui-Gon's commlink pinged. "Jinn."

"Master Jinn, thank the stars." The Prime Minister's clipped voice buzzed with static. "The situation here at the University is far worse than media coverage suggests. We have no reserve forces on Terajon to deal with _rioting _ –I fear the worst unless you intervene."

"I will be there as speedily as possible, Daijon."

Obi-Wan followed him into the formal dining room, where the rest of the family was hastily assembling.

"What in the _blazes!"_ Tamasu thundered, glowering at the holo-image flickering above Iko-Re's portable device. "Kashi-Tan."

"He will shame us all," Atasowen scowled, raking a hand over unshaven cheeks.

Ue hurried in, tugging a silken robe closed over her nightdress, silver and auburn tresses tumbling down her back in disarray. "'Asu, _dimp'ma_, please. Fetch him home- he cannot be there, I won't have him arrested and imprisoned, please."

"There is rioting," Qui-Gon pointed out.

But the distraught mother was adamant. "You are going yourself, I am sure. This is occasioned by the elections. Our son cannot be publicly involved… the dishonor it brings –"

"To hells with dishonor," Iko-Re interrupted, passionately. "His big mouth will get him killed! They're blowing things up out there, over a bunch of fatuous _ideas!"_

His pragmatic outlook did not endear him to his father. "Iko," the elder snapped. "This commonwealth – and the greater Republic – were founded by those willing to die for their ideals." He cast a brief glance at his Jedi offspring. "It is fidelity to _ideals_ that sets us above the morals of fractious herd-beasts. Curb your foolish tongue."

Which admonition had the opposite effect. "I don't want my brother killed for the sake of some star-forsaken political squabble! Can't you stop him? Can't you get him _under control_?!"

Which ironic lament was promptly ignored by all present. Qui-Gon took charge, with the alacrity of long habit. "Daijon – you and Atosowen and I will depart immediately. Obi-Wan: stay here. In case."

No explication was needed; if this newest threat had been engineered by New Dawn, the threat to any and all of Mushibi's associates was still immediate and pressing. It was prudent to leave a body-guard behind.

The young Jedi nodded grimly, concurring with the plan.

"Please 'Asu. Bring him home safely."

Ue's husband struggled into his greatcoat. "I shall bring him home safe… whether I leave his hide intact thereafter is another matter."

"What about me?" Iko-Re hollered.

Obi-Wan fixed him with a quelling look. "Make yourself useful. Bring our mother caff – and turn off that blasted holo-net."

* * *

Qui-Gon pushed the luxury air-car to its maximum velocity, eliciting a muttered string of imprecation from his senior passenger.

Atasowen 's mouth twisted ruefully. "My uncle does not enjoy flying," he explained.

The Jedi master snorted softly to himself and laid on more speed.

* * *

They sat together, closer than formality dictated, the inlaid table laden with the ceramic caff service.

"Tell me about Mushibi's friends," Obi-Wan prompted, gently. "They may all be in peril."

Ue closed her eyes, fingering the tiny jewel upon its chain. "Tamasu, Oneju, Seniiko, a handful of others. They meet regularly to discuss history and poltics. An intellectual community."

The Force eddied uneasily. "With chapters on other systems?"

She inclined her head. "So I believe. But surely Daijon Mushibi was not murdered for the sake of some academic paper… or…"

"No." He took her cup, transferring it to the tray. "He was killed for knowing too much. I feel sure of it. Had he made any unusual communications before his death – sent a holodisc, perhaps, or a data chit?"

Her eyes flitted sideways, a line appearing between her brows.

Obi-Wan took her hand in his. "Daijisa. It's important."

To his utter astonishment, mental shields fell into place between them, an impalpable and reflexive boundary erected across the Force's continuity. His breath caught, as realization dawned. Ue was…

"Ah," she murmured, and he abruptly released the crushing pressure about her fingers.

The lady gathered her composure again, her ingrained armor resumed. "I do not involve myself so deeply in Tamasu's private avocations as to know so much," she told him. Untruthfully. "But I promise you this: Mushibi, and my husband, and all their comrades, are men of impeccable principle. It is unthinkable that he should have been compromised by involvement with any disreputable organization."

He stiffened, frustrated by her reticence, stymied by her sudden distrust.. after all that had passed between them, or seemed to have… He exhaled slowly. "Have you heard of _New Dawn?"_

But she shook her head, bemusedly. "Never."

Truth, this time. Part of it, anyway. He _could _ break past those flimsily sustained barriers in a trice; to him, trained personally and rigorously by Dooku, the simple mind probe would be as facile as breaking the fragile shell of a thranctill egg. But to do so would be…

He stood and paced across the room. _Reprehensible._ Ue watched him, perhaps divining his grim interior struggle. The embers of fear – intimidation- stirred in her eyes. She raised a hand to her breast, as though stilling an upsurge of terror.

_I am terrifying._ Or he could be. Any Jedi could be. The Force was a powerful ally; a _powerful_ thing, full of awe and splendor. Vital discipline yoked him to the service of compassion – but outsiders did not always see this, stand assured of it.

He bowed and fled – temporarily- to the gardens, centering himself in the Light, reaching beyond the circumscribing _need_ of this house, into the plenum, awareness extended like a net.

Another disturbance in the universal currents; a sense of _deceit._ What if the violence erupting on Terajon's university grounds were but a distraction? Intuition flared bright in affirmation. Yes. A smokescreen for a more insidious strike, the real threat. The Senator on Coruscant had been eliminated, but not quickly enough. He had sent damning intelligence home to Terajon, but to unknown recipients. The legislative chambers had been searched, resulting in the death of two guardsmen; the Senator's home had likewise been searched to no avail; his associates were under suspicion of harboring this all-important secret. But where would the next strike land? The Jedi had made no secret of their presence here, and the unknown dejarik player behind the petty attacks displayed both patience and cunning, a finesse uncommon among mere criminal syndicates.

His ruminations seemed to evoke a concrete answer, for his commlink chimed a long-awaited alert.

The droid he had captured and rewired was on the move again, at long last. His lips curled in fierce delight – apparently his gambit was successful. The assassin was sending a clear tracking signal, betraying its trajectory and destination. The coordinates were meaningless to him – as yet – but that mattered very little. If he moved _quickly, _he could thwart the next disaster before it unfolded, possibly save lives, hopefully cut to the heart of this mystery.

He was calling for Iko-Re in the next breath.

"What?" the youngest Kenobi sulked.

"I need a transport. _Now."_

"But they took the speeder, and –"

"You've got something else. What were you piloting when your license was suspended? Not your father's aircar."

"But that's _my bike! My baby!"_

_In the name of… _ "Iko-Re, I need your help. This is _urgent."_

The youth gaped, then hemmed and hawed, before ultimately capitulating. "Fine. Fine. Just don't wreck it, for kriff's sake!"

"I won't hurt your wretched _baby."_ He snatched the ignition coder so reluctantly proffered him, and pointed indoors. "Stay here with our mother. Don't leave her alone."

He left the boy goggling on the portico, and ran flat out for the storage shed where his dubious conveyance awaited. Finally, finally , he was making progress.

* * *

By the time they arrived, the university quadrangle was in violent uproar, the unfettered rage of a generation compressed beneath centuries' weight of authority and custom. Like a wound long festering, terjon's discontent youth oozed pustulent wrath, expressed their frustration with the abandon of savages- for on this peaceful world there was no precedent for _rebellion,_ for civil disobedience. Rigidity had its flaws, and here was the inevitable backlash of such repression.

Qui-Gon left Tamasu and his nephew to negotiate Kashi-Tan's release from police custody, shouldering his own way through the poorly contained cordon to the edges of a seething crowd. The usual mob-control tactics had proved ineffective; a knot of beleaguered peacekeepers now defended themselves from attack at the center of the courtyard, while unseemly threats and insults were hurled on all sides.

He set his jaw and ignited his 'saber, sending his immediate neighbors screaming and scuttling away in dismay, and then took a flying leap over the heads of the rioters onto the small plinth at the center of this angry and uncouth convocation.

The furious crowd roared as one, every face turned toward him in impatient expectation.

* * *

Obi-Wan gunned the swoop down the groomed roadway threading between the Kenobi fiefdoms' orderly apportionments of land, homing in on the signal provided by his unwitting quarry. Iko-re had thankfully seen fit to maintain his "baby" in perfect condition, even while the long arm of the law kept them tragically apart. The grav-bike was, predictably, a costly racing model decked out with every ordinarily useless upgrade possible, including an absurdly powerful engine.

Probably as a transparent compensation for short stature or other perceived shortcomings in virility, he supposed. That is what standard psychological analysis would suggest, though Iko-Re's blithe swaggering and headlong - and successful- pursuit of hedonistic pleasure did not seem quite consonant with this armchair diagnosis.

Perhaps the boy was just _that_ enamored of speed and power. It was a mercy that the youngest son of his family had not been born a Force-sensitive. Such a mercuric and passionate nature would be, if granted such potential power, a _dangerous_ personality.

He opened the throttle a bit wider and blasted onto a narrow highway connecting separate holdings, then cut across open land in a westerly direction until the homing signal increased its pitch.

The droid had come to a standstill. He revved past the final line of hills and dropped into a small river valley full of tiny crofts and ancient stone walls criss-crossing the stony pastureland. In the distance lay a tumbled mass of ancient buildings – some sort of memorial or sanctuary. Perplexed, and curious, he sped down the center of the vale, kicking up a long comet tail of dust and grass cuttings behind him.

Ahead, the monolithic structure of an ancient barrow loomed, surrounded by a ring of modern transparisteel holo-columns declaring this site a planetary historical preserve and landmark, and detailing its history and purpose. He left the swoop outside this ring of informative kiosks and checked the tracking signal again.

The assassin was _inside_ the burial mound – underground, upon Force knew what errand of mischief. He could sense faintly the presence of other sentients, lurking beneath the surface, and wondered whether this might be the den of their nefarious opponents. Bizarre, for the presumably utopian and apocalyptic New Dawn to adopt the final resting place of archaic kings as its headquarters, but the galaxy was full of rich ironies. He smiled and traced a hand over the time-smoothed stones outside the tomb.

Saber hilt slapping at his thigh, he stepped boldly into the gaping tunnel beneath the mound, melding into shadow and silence himself, a shadow intent upon the hunt.


	20. Chapter 20

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

The mob clamored on all sides, a turgid ocean pulled hither and yon by clashing tides of passion and conviction.

"Terrorists! Anarchists!" one shrill voice accused its opponents.

"Oppressors! Obscurantists!" came the bitter response.

"Jedi!" someone else bellowed. "Listen to him, you idiots!"

Thank the Force for whatever glimmer of respect the Order still wielded. On Terajon, tradition swayed even the most vociferous proponents of change. Qui-Gon held his 'saber aloft, a signal for attention.

"People of Terajon," he shouted over the seething assembly. "You are the future of this system; why squander that future upon violence? Your present actions lay the foundation for what may follow. Do not commit yourselves so early to a futile and delusional path.

Stirrings of anger met this pronouncement.

"They've gone too far!"

"They'll do anything to maintain the status quo!"

Two sides of the strife-fretted quadrangle surged toward one another, a feud cresting on two fronts, rushing together in battle. The tall man raised both hands and _hurled_ the two ranks apart, the Force cleaving an invisible furrow through the clashing bodies, throwing some to this side and some to that, leaving a three-meter wide gap between. A collective gasp of astonishment echoed off the granite edifices and died slowly to a muttering susurration.

Supernal fire burning in his blood, the Jedi master raised his voice again. "Do not dishonor yourselves and your cause with bloodshed!"

"Then why has Ichiru sent guards to beat us down?"

Qui-Gon swept a hand over the unruly crowd. "Those sent to contain the riots will leave." When his mandate was met with hesitance, he thundered out, "_Now."_

A battered company of helmeted pike-wielders slunk to the periphery, gladly abandoning their futile task. The students grudgingly allowed them to pass, their slumping shoulders and hunched postures eloquent testimony to guttering enthusiasm for violence. "Ideals have carved a deep rift across this world," the Jedi master continued, encompassing them all in his commanding gaze. "Do not let it carve through friendships and families as well. Look about you. Those you accuse are known to you – study with you, share your life ways, your ambitions. "

More sullen murmurs, but the pitched and razor-edged tension in the air lessened, ebbing away imperceptibly into exhaustion.

"Then who has done this thing?" a querulous voice called out, to be seconded by a handful of others.

He took a breath, holding his mild Force-influence steady, but hisreply was pre-empted by a straggler on the edge of the crowd, a stooped figure in academic gowns. This person waved what appeared to be _paper_ over his head. "I'll tell you!" he bellowed. "Seccessionists, that's who! Look at this , this… propaganda!_ There are thousands of these things-_ inside the library. The people who did this are treasonous fanatics!"

The slip of parchment waved frantically, a flag not of truce but of war. The crowd found itself united in the face of a new, and common, enemy, and the herald of ill tidings the center of public attention. The omb dissolved into knots of gossiping trepidation; Qui-Gon leapt from his makeshift pulpit and threaded his way among the throng to the damaged library's steps.

Minister Ichiru bowed deeply before him. "I am deeply in your debt," she began.

"Let me see one of these documents."

The premier summoned an aide forward with a terse gesture. "They are curious documents – made of paper, Master Jedi, and ink. A colossal waste of resources."

"And archaic." He peered at the sample brought for his inspection. It detailed, in neat script, the rights and duties of a free citizenry, advocating a return to the principles of true democracy and complete eschewal of the irredeemably corrupt Galactic Senate, and by extension the Republic itself. "How many of these were distributed?"

A stout security officer provided his estimate. "Many hundreds of copies, perhaps, Daijon. A calling card of sorts."

"Master Jinn," the premier pleaded with him," the Stewardship must not become the center of such scandal. I need an arrest, and resolution! Such brazen and immoral deeds cannot be left unpunished – these people must be stopped before they besmirch the honor of our entire society!"

"I come as peace-keeper, not to preserve your system's reputation," the tall man reminded her, grey eyes narrowing. Whoever is responsible, I assure you that – "

But all such dispute was cut short by a guttural groan from the building behind them.

An emergency responder shouted from the vestibule. "She's going to collapse! We 've got to evacuate the lower level!"

The supporting walls creaked and rumbled , visibly bowing outward under the strain of the massive roof, which sagged ominously where its internal buttresses had been blown apart.

Undaunted, acting on instinct's urgent prompting, Qui-Gon leapt inside the slowly imploding structure, barking orders at the panicking emergency crew.

* * *

He knew- because he had pored greedily over archaeological holo-texts as a youngling – what lay beneath the pristine swell of grassy turf. The original kings, or clan chieftains, had customarily been buried inside the primitive starships in which they had first colonized this world, in a time almost past sentient memory. The vessel itself was covered by a mound of earth, transformed into a mausoleum forever preserved within the planet's mineral womb. There were said to be compounds in the soil that prevented the tritanium shielding from decay – and if the pressure seals were not violated, the interior of the hull would be a near vacuum, an eerie bubble in which the mortal remains of ancient sojourners would be preserved relatively intact for countless centuries.

Of course, this one had been excavated and turned into a museum, but the effect was nonetheless unsettling. Obi-Wan prowled down the sloping passage, ducked beneath a low lintel, and found himself facing the open portal of a very early model external hyperdrive cruiser. The inner bulkheads had been left intact, every detail preserved with painstaking accuracy. In the aft hold, he knew, the tomb proper would be located, replete with mummified corpse, replicas of the original treasury heaped in piles about the macabre object.

Jedi burned their fallen brethren's bodies upon a funeral pyre; this universal practice of _pickling_ and _hoarding_ gross matter always filled him with a skin-crawling revulsion.

He lingered upon the threshold of this weird underworld sanctuary for a moment, allowing the Force to wash over him in overlapping waves: the dull echo of long-dead canticles, the slow rhythms of the surrounding land, tectonic sliding, erosion, shifts in the rain and sun… the thrill of unearthed treasure, the faint resonance of countless visitors to this shrine.. and something with a sour tang, the hushed expectancy of greedy and unscrupulous beings.

A trap. His pulse quickened, adrenaline rushing cold in his veins, counterpoint to the Force's kindling flames. There was only one civilized way to approach a _trap_ , and that was to spring it.

He stepped forward into the open cabin beyond, noting the dismantled probe droid upon the deck plates, his tracking beacon set – tauntingly- to one side. So he had been… summoned? To this place, thinking himself the hunter when he was in fact the intended victim of a lure. That would seem to be the general idea, anyhow. Bring the enemy to you – an elementary strategic ploy, but inadvisable when your enemy was used to playing dejarik with Yan Dooku. A wave of the hand stilled the pulsing circuits, dimming the murky enclave yet further. The Force shimmered, telling him that a dozen or more foes were crowded behind the next portal, that issuing onto the aft hold. He raised a brow, and hefted his 'saber hilt in one hand.

They were making this _too easy._

He gathered the Light to himself and raised a hand, _wrenching _ the intervening panel open. His blade leapt from its hilt at the same instant, tracing a sonorous triple helix salute about his body as he called out a friendly greeting to his would-be ambushers.

"Hello there."

The response was enthusiastic, if not congenial. A eager horde of assailants charged through the portal, a hailstorm of blaster bolts screaming in their vanguard. Blazing sapphire luminance rebounded them, every shot glancing off the whirling saber's edge, this howling, perfect, impossibly fast dance with death a mere lark, a youngling's sport. Obi-Wan breathed _in, _ power flooding pure and fleet through his every cell. Parry, strike, cut, duck, roll, slice, _throw_ this enemy into the far wall, leap over the next, take out the ceiling panel, _slam_ it down upon that other, strike _this_ one upside the jaw with his elbow, reverse cut, parry, _always destroy their weapons first - _ he flowed like summer lightning into the next chamber, the wide funerary hold, where there was enough head space for a tight backflip or two.

He really _preferred_ Ataru, given his druthers. Roundhouse kick, sailing leap, downward strike, flip back out of range, cut the blaster in half, send the villain _crashing _ into the bulkhead, spin and _flip_ and strike, once twice, reverse, again, and _there._

He twirled the weapon flashily once or twice, its growling tenor a trumpet blast of victory. His foes lay curled and moaning or sprawled and silent, across the scuffed deck were thirteen all told, every one of them clad in a different variation on the standard mercenary's gear. More hired hands, not the head of operations he had anticipated.

"Blast." He grimaced at the three who had perished, despite his restraint. In such chaotic close quarters, in pitched melee, defensive fighting could be deadly. Had they truly hoped to take him down? He frowned, stepping over the groaning form of a burly Celiax to have another look at the dismantle assassin probe. Why would anyone smart enough to have detected his meddling waste so much manpower on a sophomoric tactic like this, unless…

Distraction. The university riots were a distraction, bait to draw Qui-Gon's attention away…. And this was…

He was an _idiot!_

He slammed a hand against the nearest panel, cursing himself for a fool, and pelted through the battle-scarred ship for the outer hatch –

Only to find it sealed.

Fine. The 'saber hissed into life again; a second later he had buried the plasma blade hilt deep in the blast panel, a molten ring of fire slowly forming about its edges. It would only take a few moments to…

Alarm flared behind his temples, chilled his bones. He could hear the pressure pump system at work, the modern addition to this ancient burial sight. After each exhibition, the air inside the precious historical artifact was suctioned out, recreating the timeless vacuum that had kept it inviolate for so any centuries. The machinery was powerful and efficient; his lungs began to burn immediately. _Blast blast blast – _

And then he reeled, choking on his next burning breath, the 'saber extinguished as he loosened his grip. No – the pump wasn't _ evacuating air, _ it was thrusting a sickly acrid toxin into the cabin. Green-yellow vapor coiled sinuously along the decks, reaching ephemeral fingers for him. _Dioxis, dioxis, think Kenobi think what do you do?_

Hold his breath, for one thing. Could he cut through in time? _Stay calm, use the Force, think._

The other beings trapped in here with him – they were writhing, choking on the deadly toxin. His stomach flipped, in protest at the cold cruelty. These poor creatures had been sacrificed, used as pawns and left to die. His eyes ran with bitter tears, protesting the stinging efflux. _Stay calm. _ _Focus. _ These people were ruthless, and laid their plans carefully. He must not lose focus.

He knelt, suspending breath and blood in a near timeless _yamalsa_ trance, poised upon the cusp of the eternal moment, saber hilt across his knees, eyes closed, ready for instant obliterating action so soon as the door opened.

* * *

"Just another few, almost there… thre two one – easy men, yes! We're secure."

The ratcheting groans of heavy cranes and industrial braces ground harsh edges against his focus, battered against the sealed gates of his mind. Size matters not, _mass_ maters not, _gravity_ matters not….

"Master Jedi! Master Jedi!"

"Is he all right?"

"Daijon Jinn? Master Jedi!"

Qui-Gon shuddered, feeling his grasp on the limitless power falter, slide, tremble –

"It's all right, Daijon! We've got it, we've got the struts in place. You can let go."

He slumped forward onto hands and knees, spent. His tunics clung wetly to his chest, his hair hung damp with perspiration. A circle of awed admirers stood in respectful silence, too astonished to offer him a hand up. He panted, and brought his abruptly racing pulse under control.

"How long…?"

"Over an hour, Daijon. You held the roof up for an hour. We're evacuating the victims now – and the building is saved, too. It can be retrofitted form here."

He nodded, relief squeezing a giddy half-chuckle from his throat.

Somehow, he found his feet and stumbled out into sunshine and fresh air, drawing his cloak about his shoulders. He was getting too old for this sort of thing.

Atasowen hailed him across the quadrangle. "Daijon Jinn! We've convinced the police to release Kashi-Tan… it took some delicate negotiations. Thank goodness my uncle still commands respect in most circles. "

"Good." The irate mob of earlier today had dispersed entirely, the disorder replaced by construction crews and emergency first aid pavilions, milling cam-bots and a bevy of police inspectors and journalists. Daijon Ichiru and her aides were sequestered at one end of the busy courtyard. He turned wearily to his young acquaintance, a flutter of _warning_ twisting somewhere at the margins of his awareness, blending with the ache behind his eyes. "Let's get back to the house… I think there has been trouble."


	21. Chapter 21

**Legacy 2**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

Qui-Gon relinquished the pilot's seat to Atasowen, and folded himself into the Force's rejuvenating embrace. Terajon's sculpted geography rolled away beneath the speeder, the countryside a piebald chequerboard of orchard and field, tilled soil and terraced hill, every contour softened by centuries' cultivation, not a spot left undomesticated, wild or free. They spoke little, all four of them exhausted by the morning's unrest. Kashi-Tan sat in mortified silence beside his father in the back row, shame swallowing any excuses he might have ventured to make. The afternoon sun sank behind them as they sped for the family estate, the setting sun casting avaricious shadows over the outlying farmsteads and villages inside their property bounds.

The house lay in deep twilight when they returned; a pall not only of encroaching night but of _danger_ settling over its stately bulk.

Qui-Gon noticed the alarming lacuna immediately: Obi-Wan was not here, and had not been here for many hours. He dashed for the front doors, which hung open, the hospitality torches unlit. Strife hung in the air, fear and desperation a stale echo upon the stairwell.

"Daijisa!" he called out, expecting no answer. "Iko-Re!"

A faint moan from upstairs; it took him only a moment to find the boy, crumpled in a miserable ball upon the floor of his mother's private chamber. The Jedi master turned him over, gingerly, running a hand over the boody gash along his hairline, probing with the Force.

"Iko-Re, look at me."

Blue eyes fluttered, struggled to focus. "I … I tried… I –they-"

"Shh." The injury was significant, but would not be fatal. Concussion, almost certainly. There were other bruises, and a dislocated shoulder. "Easy. We'll get you to medcenter. Who came? Who was it? Where is Obi-Wan?"

Iko-Re frowned, panting raggedly. "He left… they came.. took her..! Oh!" His face contorted. "I couldn't _stop_ them, they _took_ her, and and-"

Possibilities, likelihoods, wild speculation: these all clamored for his attention. But this was a moment for action, decision. Footfalls pounded up the stairs behind him. "Obi-Wan left? Why?" The young Knight would not have abandoned post for any but the most pressing reason. Had he gone in pursuit of the assassin?

"My bike," Iko-Re slurred."Took…."

Atasowen uttered some hearty curse and knelt beside his wounded cousin.

"Where is my wife?" his uncle exclaimed.

Qui-Gon stood, faced the stricken patriarch squarely. "She has been kidnapped."

Tamasu had the look of a man who has been impaled upon the spot. "Ue," he moaned.

There was no time to indulge in emotion. "Atasowen," the tall man ordered. "You must call for the medics. Go with your cousin to the medcenter. He will need you there. Daijon." He turned to the white-faced father. "You, and your associates. All those who were friends of Senator Mushibi. You must find safety – the threat to your lives is grave."

Tamasu nodded, wits returning to him slowly. "Yes… Yes. Seniiko has a bunker beneath his house – one of his historical projects, and old shelter for-"

Qui-Gon waved a hand. "Summon him here immediately, then collect the others. Go to his stronghold and _stay_ in hiding until I return or send word. Do you understand?"

The other man was not accustomed to taking orders, but he meekly submitted to the Jedi's authority in this crisis. He cast a last appalled look at his youngest son, strange emotions ghosting over his lined face.

"He will be cared for. Go."

While Tamasu hurried on his way, and Atasowen called the local paramedics, Qui-Gon located Iko-Re's bedroom and made a hasty appraisal of its contents: lavish four-poster, heaps of costly and fashionable clothes, shaving kit, cologne, expensive souvenirs and collectibles, a target practice blaster rifle, various and sundry trophies and plaques, mementos from a presumably exclusive secondary school, several half-empty bottles of sakuri or other liqueurs hidden in a cupboard, decks of cards, money scattered carelessly in piles, a brand new commlink, and seven other 'pads and avante garde electronic devices, holos of four different young ladies– all of them older than Iko-Re – the detritus of a life squandered upon petty pleasures and thrill seeking.

He had a sudden and compelling desire to throw the whole lot out the bay window. Give him _six months_ with Iko-Re in the Temple, under his sole authority, and – but such was impossible. He rifled through the disorderly contents of a hand-carved desk, and at last came up with the object of his search: the anti-theft tracking device for the dissolute youth's grav-bike.

Exhaling, he activated the satellite location service. "Obi-Wan…." He growled, waiting for the coordinates to be confirmed.

A minute later he was lifting the family's speeder into the air, and hurtling away across the fields, heliotropes in the last pasture shuddering frenziedly as the aircar sped over their humble white blooms.

* * *

Time shredded into diaphanous ribbons, translucent pennants only loosely fettering mind to matter. At the center, where light welled endlessly, there was no measure, no beginning or term, no need and no want. Somewhere far, far outside this motionless fulcrum, matter groaned and burned, demanding release from bondage, crumbling …. Slowly… into darkness.

A little longer…. his focus wavered, center blurring again periphery, into the demands of gross matter. _Stay focused. Be ready. Do not let go._

A sharp dissonance sundered him again into the here and now, shattering the trance. His heart gave a great and painful leap, stuttering out of _unity_ into tempestuous life. His chest ached fit to burst, spots swam even before his closed eyes. He squinted through fair lashes, through sparkling droplets, registering dimly the sealed door, the cloying clouds engulfing him on all sides.

_Danger danger danger._

Sweat slicked fingers closed about his 'saber's hilt.

_Now- now-please now - _ the portal hissed open, the acrid vapor swirling agitatedly as clean, fresh sweet air rushed into the breach. He sprang upright, muscles screaming, throat raw and burning, Light flooding through him in thunderous waves. The sapphire blade spun and slashed, unerring and fleet, carving swift destruction through a forest of spindly legs and arms, showering circuits, decapitated droid heads, unwieldy weapons. The yellow miasma dissipated, melded into the smoke rising off the decimated droids, a pallid veil smeared across his vision.

One last figure stood, clad in a grey unisuit, neither tall nor short , slim nor heavyset, short hair cropped to an indiscriminate length. He snarled, pinned this blank apparition against the wall with one upheld fist, and brought the thrumming 'saber's blade to bear upon its throat.

The last tendrils of _dioxis_ melted into the cold air beneath the tunnel , wisping up and out the passageway into the open night beyond. He bared his teeth, knowing that _this,_ at last, was the true culprit, the puppeteer behind the cold-blooded mummery – and looked at the face of his captive.

Jedi or not, he gasped in horror.

And then brought the pulsing weapon's edge even closer, all but scorching the prisoner's skin.

She didn't flinch. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Heart hammering in revulsion – in _fear,_ there is no fear – in _anger,_ a Jedi knows not anger – he narrowed his eyes and pressed closer until they stood a breath apart, her life hanging on the thread of undeserved mercy.

_Jenna Zan Arbor._

Cold, steel grey eyes surveyed him , mockingly, then slid over his shoulder to the outer doors, the massive post and lintel gateway to this underworld realm. Another woman's voice sounded behind him, a strangled cry of dismay, one that set his pulse skipping yet again. _Ue._

Zan Arbor's thin, colorless lips curved into a humorless smile. "Your weapon, please. "

"I don't think so."

"Where is your filial piety?"

So she knew. He glanced down at her dull unisuit, at the unfamiliar insignia of a white sun rising over a crenelleted horizon. _New Dawn._ "Let her go, or you die."

She laughed in his face. "In cold blood? We both know you won't do it. I, on the other hand, have no such qualms about your pathetic dam… she's past her prime anyhow – I can always harvest organs for research later."

Sounds of futile struggle outside; there were four sentients and, he guessed, another squadron of armed droids. He could take them all – but not with the hostage in their midst.

"Kill her," the perverse scientist ordered, blandly.

"No!" The 'saber's brilliance expired as he whipped round, releasing his own prisoner. "Stop!"

Cold fingers plucked the hilt from his fingers. "Better."

"Obi-Wan!" Ue cried out, in anguish.

She was pinned between two uniformed men, both clad in the same grey unisuit as their leader. Behind them, silhouetted in pallid moonlight, a bristling forest of the spindly security droids, limbs creaking softly as they shifted position. Ue's posture was rigid, her presence a seething pit of fear and resentment and grief. It twisted sharply in his own gut until he slammed mental shields down, blotting out the uninvited efflux of emotion.

Jenna Zan Arbor spoke softly. "It is simple for a trained observer to elicit any desired response in a given subject; one must only know what stimulus to use. I assume I need not explain the situation to you?"

He closed his eyes briefly. _Not good._ But a solution would present itself; the Force would guide. "Very well," he growled, submitting for the moment. A Jedi first and foremost protected the innocent, those with no other means of defense. "I will accompany you."

"Of course you will," Zan Arbor murmured, dangerously.

He spun, instantly, reflexes outstripping sensation itself – but though the dart whizzed past his neck it still embedded itself in his shoulder, piercing through both layers of tunic. He swatted the tiny object away, registering the brief explosion of pain, and reeled backward into the tunnel wall. The toxin hammered into him like a black avalanche, smothering his defiant yell, melting Ue's echoing scream into meaningless gibberish, the howling emptiness that rose and rose then crashed down, obliterating and inexorable.

* * *

Qui-Gon found the missing grav-bike neatly propped against an informational kiosk. The phospho-lit column displayed a rotating text and picture gallery, one detailing the burial practices of ancient starfaring tribes, some fo the first sentient colonists on Terajon, long before the Republic had been solidified into a single federal entity. The vehicle's thrusters were tepid to the touch – it might have been sitting here for hours. Obi-Wan's signature lingered about the machine – bearing with it a sonorous chiming, a peculiar _resonance_ all its own – but he could discern no trace of the young Knight's presence here now.

Fear hung in the air; and strife had left invisible gashes across the Force's placid currents, ugly scars of violence and tall man cautiously proceeded within the open tomb itself, boots striking against metal scraps in the sloping passage. His hand found a dim illuminator embedded in the wall, and brushed against its touch sensitive plate. In the resulting glow he counted a half-dozen expertly dissected battle droids, their felled corpses littering the entire corridor, all the way down to a second interior panel. Beyond this second threshold lay the ancient ship itself, final resting place to some forgotten war leader.

Inside, a gruesome spectacle awaited him. Bodies, faces bloated and rictus-hard, blood seeping from mouths and nostrils, eyes staring glassily at nothing. The Jedi master raised a wide cloak sleeve to cover his mouth; the suppurating odor of death and the aftertaste of _dioxis_ closed his throat. He stepped over the unfortunates in the forward hold, pressing onward into the tomb proper. There, laid in state upon a primitive slab, the mummified king reposed. More bodies sprawled at his feet, every visage constricted in an agonized death-mask.

And fluttering like dried leaves among the twisted roots of a forest, paper and ink pamphlets, a scattering of perverse blossoms upon this funerary train.

But no Obi-Wan. Some of the mercenaries' bodies were lacking a limb; others bore the smoldering marks of a 'saber wound. A battle then, ending in… what? A trap? He squatted beside one of the nearest, tugging a spent blaster from rigid fingers. The weapon was brand new, and bore the guild imprint of Baktoid Armories.

He stood again, releasing a long breath. So. _New Dawn_ again. Somehow, his former apprentice had been lured to this place – perhaps by means of the droid he had captured?- and then cornered. The ugly scene left in his wake suggested a particularly violent conflict... but to what end? And was Ue's disappearance connected?

It must be.

He sought the clean air above ground again, tipping his face to the heavens, where stars now peeked from between scudding rainclouds. Battle droids of this variety were deployed on short term missions. They had to be recharged and re-programmed for each successive sortie, requiring a central operation base. It would be difficult to conceal such a unit anywhere on Terajon, where every square meter of land was accounted for. Orbiting ships were strictly monitored and recorded. Where else might one seek concealment?

He gazed up at the passionless stars again - and then shifted focus to the three moons, clustered snugly together in one corner of the night sky.

Perhaps he knew where to look after all.


	22. Chapter 22

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

"As you can see, Daijon Jinn, most our system's industrial interests are located on the largest moon. The other two are unsuitable for sustained agriculture and house little besides a penitentiary colony from before the days of integration, and the shipyards. Ecological considerations forbid the manufacture of certain substances and most smelting operations on the main planet. We have done an exemplary job of preserving Terajon's environment at optimal non-toxicity, and our laws reflect this preference."

By which it was to be inferred that the moons had been consigned to the role of gutter and waste-heap; every civilization had such things. Only leave it to this one to sweep the whole mess under the proverbial rug. "And which of the satellites is least regulated… has the least traffic to and from?"

Minister Ichiru's embroidered robes rustled faintly as she strolled round the enormous projection. "The smallest, Nae-ru, here. It has little atmosphere, and was the original site of our world's only prison. Early criminals were exiled to this sub-surface colony… and only permitted excursions when Terajon proper filled the horizon. It was thought that the sight of the home they had lost would evoke repentance."

Qui-Gon breathed out. "This penal colony is, I take it, a historical landmark now?"

The premier shook her head. "We do not squander our prosperity upon the preservation of such distasteful memories."

_Of course you don't. _ "Daijon Ichiru- I require a small shuttle. I think I have l located those responsible for the recent outrages."

They exited the darkened map room. Ichiru's personal guards stood at attention outside the door. "The Stewardship's resources are at your disposal, Master Jinn. These treacherous machinations must be _stopped, _ and their authors brought to justice."

But, as the tall Jedi strode down the stately arcade outside the capitol building, he wondered whether the problem were quite that simple.

* * *

_There are dark shapes writing upon the pale ceiling- a stilted dervish dance, traced by grotesque figurines. Their edges blur and meld together, flowing like dark magma one into another, silhouettes sprouting elongated claws, then unsightly bulges, forms splitting and combining in a nauseating pattern._

_He watches wide-eyed, paralyzed, tracing in those horrific permutations the unfolding of some catastrophe far outside his comprehension, a black horde ravening just over the horizon, reaching for him or for all of them, ready to sweep the orderly world away in their drunken carillon. He cannot move or cry out or even look away, and the shadow play creeps down from the ceiling to the walls, then across the silver-bathed floor, its ragged periphery now crawling inexorably upward, flowing into the very space where he lies, vulnerable to its depredations._

_He finds his voice and screams, for black shapes are descending upon him, awful, smothering – _

_He screams and screams, begging release, until the terror is banished by the sudden epiphany of _warmth,_ of safety._ _Familiar arms reach for him and he is swept up, clasped to a soft bosom, stroked and soothed. Among the reassurances murmured softly into the top of his head are gentle untruths: that the shapes are only shadows, that there is nothing to fear, that Darkness cannot hurt anyone. _

_He knows better, but the rhythmic swaying and the scent of skin and soft linen, the warmth encircling him, the cadence of that beloved voice, erode away all but drowsy contentment. He clings, gratefully, and allows that voice and those hands to seduce him back into peaceful oblivion, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and…_

Nauseating.

He rolled over, or tried to, fighting down the urge to vomit spectacularly and prolongedly.

_Black shadows, toxic sludge, chittering beetles, the Dark gathering in hurricane clouds, glorious in battle array, merciless, blotting out the stars…_

He groaned, on the brink of giving way, and curled inward against the violent cramps. "Chaul'thu trmanni." Or, in the vernacular Basic, "…Kriffing _hells_."

A tiny gasp, close at hand, feminine, and quite offended by the coarse language.

_Oh stars._ Ue. He sucked in several breaths between gritted teeth, gathering his scattered wits together sufficiently to formulate an apology for his lack of manners, but the words devolved into another moan as the next wave hit him.

And the next. And the next. And…

"I'm so sorry," he rasped, surrendering to the inevitable. He retched until he was hiccupping and his throat parched, then collapsed onto his back, the glaring illuminator panels overhead splintering into spectral bands, dizzying sworls of fluid color.

Ue' s voice sounded a few paces away. "Water. Water… please. Have you no _decency?"_

She must be imploring the guards outside this… cell. Obi-Wan grunted, sardonically. Well, of _course_ they had no decency. That much should be obvious.

But to his surprise, the next sounds were that of an energy barrier snapping open, and a pair of heavy boots crossing the short intervening space. The smeared majesty of the light panels was temporarily eclipsed by a man's blurry silhouette; and then a cold _slap_ of water hit him full in the face, pooling on the deck beneath him, running in tiny rivulets into his hair and down his neck.

A nasty chuckle. "Not so high and mighty now, eh, Jedi? I'll tell Doctor Arbor you're ready for a private audience. You- stay right where you are, you pathetic bitch."

Some things were simply beyond the pale. The guardsman's body hit the far wall with a dull thump; Ue cried out in surprise and fear; Obi-Wan rolled onto his knees, snarling. Open doorway. "Go!" he barked, head spinning. He couldn't stand; the expenditure of energy had drained him.

Ue hesitated. "Go where?"

Oh. Yes. They were…. He was…. He clutched his aching head. _Blast it all to the…_ "Where are we?"

She shrank back, pressing her body to the durasteel panel behind him as more footsteps echoed outside their prison. The open threshold was filled a moment later by two more grey-clad men, both uniforms emblazoned with the rising sun of _New Dawn._ One checked his fallen comrade's pulse, while the other struck out savagely with a stun stick.

Obi-Wan ducked, skidding to one side, and kicked a leg out, knocking his assailant's feet from beneath him. They grappled upon the decks, vying for possession of the short baton, exchanging brutal hand-to-hand blows until the second guard intervened.

"Jedi filth," he grunted, planting his own weapon squarely in the prisoner's solar plexus.

Black shadows burst into vibrant flame, screaming actinic columns of _fire-_

"Enough," a third voice snapped. "Not like that."

The pain ceased; the men withdrew a step, sullen and quiet; a rancid stench suffused the Force.

Jenna Zan Arbor had _stage presence; _ he would grant her that much.

"Let's proceed scientifically," she purred, gesturing with one hand. The men seized Ue between them, eliciting a small noise of protest as they pinned her arms none too gently. Zan Arbor took a step forward, looming over the young Jedi. "I have a very clear objective for this examination."

Droid servos creaked and hissed as a pair of armed units entered the cell; these were sturdier models, armored with impressively thick shielding and heavy duty energy pikes. Baktoid had been hard at work on the fashion runway, apparently – and _somebody _had money to fund their creative genius. Obi-Wan filed this information away for future reference, not spending energy on futile protest as the faceless minions hauled him upright and clamped his wrists to the wall with heavy magneto binders.

Focus. Negotiate.

Difficult with a splitting headache and lingering toxic shock, but one could always make small talk. "I know science rests upon predictability, but this is a bit clichéd, don't you think?"

"Effective methodology is not _cliched," _Zan Arbor corrected him. "If anyone here is predictable, it is you. I will admit to a certain unprofessional satisfaction upon realizing that the Jedi sent to interfere with our operation here was none other than my favorite lab specimen."

Ue' s appalled intake of breath was clearly audible.

"It's good to see you too," he drawled. "Only _this_ time you won't escape."

The grim-faced woman merely pursed her lips. "Always bragging and blustering." She checked her hand-held datapad, sharp features contracting in a small frown. "You do realize why we are here."

He glanced upward at his bound wrists and managed a shrug, feigning ennui. "Oh, vengeance or something equally dreary, I imagine."

Zan Arbor tapped her stylus against the 'pad's rim. "Revenge is irrational. I am a seeker of _knowledge._ "

"Really? I was under the impression you belonged to a political extremist organization."

She plucked at the insignia upon her drab uniform sleeve. "Oh, this?" A haughty tilt of the chin. "I have obtained an enlightened patron, one willing to fund and protect my researches. The affiliation is mutually beneficial."

"So you're here on someone else's business."

"I am here," Doctor Arbor insisted, "To obtain very specific information."

Focus. Negotiate.

"Well, you've secured my cooperation," he observed, wryly. "Release your hostage; she has nothing to do with this." He avoided Ue's eyes and kept his mental shields rigid; it was difficult enough to concentrate without such distractions.

But his assertion provoked only a mirthless smile. "On the contrary, she has _everything_ to do with this."

Ue made some incoherent sound and was silenced by the brutal guardsmen. "Quiet, vetch."

Zan Arbor stepped closer, an unspoken threat lurking behind her steely gaze. Her short-cropped hair clung to her skull like fungus to some bleached boulder; her pinched features were more lined and sallow than before. "I wasted three years languishing in a Republic prison cell and dealing with the corruptions of our so-called legal system. Can you blame me for seeking a way to make up for lost time? New Dawn is the answer – sweeping galactic reform, a new society founded on _rational_ principles, _scientific _ progress, _centralized_ governance."

Obi-Wan frowned. Principled secession, … reform… antiquarian tractates…. scientific despotism…there was something not quite _consonant_ about this group's ideology. "You want to centralize authority by _splintering_ the Republic apart?" he scoffed.

His interlocutor tapped her stylus against his chest. Tip tip tip. "Now what would make you think that?"

He could barely think at all, thanks to the toxin still seeping in his blood – but intuition set to work at once, threshing grain from chaff, detail from context, sifting for the truth. "You planted those pamphlets to divert blame." Of course. A smokescreen. _But then, who were the traitors, the true progenitors of those documents, the hidden and festering source of disquiet…?_

But Zan Arbor was impatient with their conversation. "We're wasting time. I need answers."

But that wasn't going to happen. He released a short and contemptuous breath. "You should know better by now."

The maniacal doctor sneered. "Oh, I know you won't yield up anything under duress. I'm a keen _observer, _remember_?" _ She prowled slowly across the stifling space to Ue and considered her other captive abstractedly. "And I would guess that the acorn does not fall far from the tree."

The two women held each other's gaze for a long moment, fidelity to tradition and utopian fervor locked in a silent stalemate. Neither was a stranger to sacrifice; both cleaved faithfully to their respective ideals. Ue's lifted her head, with utmost dignity. "I do not pretend to know what despicable villainy you perpetuate under the false name of _enlightenment,_ but you will not bend me to your purposes now or ever."

Zan Arbor noted something on her 'pad. "You see? Like certain unreactive compounds, there are elements which remain utterly inert - until combined. As I said before, the science of eliciting a response is no more or less than that of finding the right stimulus."

Ue squirmed in the guards' grip.

"Let me elucidate. Senator Mushibi, prior to his death, was in possession of certain compromising information regarding my patron."

"Mushibi was not a blackmailer," Ue protested. "You are delusional."

"I did not say he was a blackmailer. Far from it. We have searched his residence and senatorial offices both on Coruscant and this world, to no avail. It stands to reason then that he sent this information to his close associates – by material means, lest the transmission be intercepted. What I need to know from you, _daijisa,_ is this: where is this information stored?"

"I do not know of what you speak."

Obi-Wan's heart sank; the Force fairly _rang_ with falsehood. The lady did know . She knew, and had kept this secret well, her undeveloped Force-sensitivity perhaps aiding the mild deception. His heart hammered against his sternum. What in stars' name was going on? What was his mother involved in?

"I think you do." Zan Arbor made a curt gesture at the droids, each of which activated its pike. Frenetic blue arc-waves sizzled ominously about the business ends of the long weapons.

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. _Really._

"I will not cooperate," Ue said, voice trembling. "You cannot force my compliance, by any means." Her eyes sought his, pleading for…what? Strength? Forgiveness?

"There are certain instinctual triggers which supercede almost any inhibition," Zan Arbor declared, academically. "The irrational but deep seated maternal protective urge among them. Let us see just how much _pain_ you can watch your offspring endure before you change your mind about _compliance."_

Ue sucked in a horrified breath, the cruel gyres of this trap only now making themselves fully felt.

"Tell her _nothing!" _Obi-Wan commanded, projecting his urgency across the Force, _willing_ her to see how foolish, how misplaced such desperate promptings of attachment might be. "Do not dishonor us both!"

"Well?" Zan Arbor demanded. "What did Senator Mushibi send? And where is that data now?"

Trembling violently, Ue shook her head. "I do not know."

"Oh, but I think you do," the maleficent scientist murmured, snapping her fingers at the eagerly poised droids. "…I think you do."


	23. Chapter 23

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 23**

The moon's face was a raw patchwork of lesions and craters, the unkind scars left by solar wind and radiation. The shuttle's active sensors registered no discernible atmosphere, and a gravitational pull surprisingly strong for such a miniscule body, from which it was to be inferred the rocky mass possessed a very dense mineral core. Qui-Gon looped round the equator twice, contrary to the sluggish rotation, and spied his destination on the second circuit.

The prison settlement appeared as nothing more than a series of venting shafts above a harsh and stony ridge. An opalescent containment dome – a primitive deflection field, but still effective – protected the barren stretch of rock from ion bombardment and particulate storms, and might possibly harbor a breathable environment. Two sentinel towers rose to either side, watchful automated eyes trained on the enclosure's perimeter. A power generator sat a good klick away, safe from the malicious intentions of any long-ago inmate rebellion.

The entire vista was bleak, a private hell where violators of the society's strictures could be incarcerated and forgotten, domed to eke out their days pining for the relative paradise they had lost, forced perhaps to line up in the stark prison yard and gaze up upon Terajon's gracious looming curve, which seemed to fill half the sky, a disapproving parent glowering down upon its disobedient scions.

The tall Jedi exhaled slowly, focusing instead upon the present moment. He made an experimental pass within range of the sentinel towers, and was rewarded with two warning shots across his bows, courtesy of the automated cannon. Pulling up and turning the borrowed craft back toward safety, he weighted options. That the citadel's defenses were active was enough evidence to confirm his suspicion: this outpost had been recently refurbished as a base for more insidious occupants. He set down a wary distance past the ridge, and closed his eyes, reaching into the universal Force for further confirmation.

Many dim specks clustered in the void: a constellation of avarice and secrecy, conspiratorial. So. The _hive._ And among these swirling points of life, one that radiated particular cold malice, a black hole sucking light unto itself. _An unknown but eerie enemy. _ And also, familiar and yet jarringly distorted, a blazing star appearing as dissonant shards within the plenum, bright agony flaring like a supernova: his former apprentice.

"Obi-Wan," he growled, not for the first time.

At least as a padawan, the boy had _moderated _ his headlong impulsive rush toward danger, his reckless courtship of disaster. Now, unfettered by the oaths of obedience that had hitherto buffered such impetuosity, the young Knight displayed a suicidal tendency rarely achieved outside a berserker Wookiee brigade.

Stifling a curse, he rose and made swift inventory of the shuttle's storage lockers. There was a serviceable pressure suit and helmet – though, he noted upon a wry appraisal, the proportions were better suited to Terajon's more compactly framed inhabitants. He donned the uncomfortably snug gear and clipped his 'saber hilt on the outside, within ready reach, then depressurized the cabin and made his way down the ramp and onto the moon's inhospitable surface.

The generator station would be first on his private itinerary.

* * *

Jenna Zan Arbor kept fastidious notes during the interrogation, dutifully scribing a detailed record onto her 'pad as the proceedings carried on under her supervision.

"I'll ask you again: what did Mushibi send to his associates on Terajon?"

Tears streamed down Ue's cheeks, but she steadfastly held her peace, sagging in the grip of the unsympathetic guards.

Zan Arbor nodded to the droids, which set about their work with unemotional diligence. The young Jedi arched and screamed, then slumped against the wall, muscles seizing in the aftermath of sustained shock.

Ue moaned, trying to turn her face away; a bony hand seized her chin roughly and jerked her head round to the piteous spectacle. "You know," Zan Arbor whispered.

"How would I know?" the distraught mother objected. "What reason have you to suppose my family is involved?"

But the cold-blooded scientist merely tapped her stylus against the 'pad's touch screen. "Why else would _Jedi _ be stationed at your residence? Do not take me for a fool. What did Mushibi send to your husband?"

Desperate, Ue looked beseechingly at the victim of the droids' continuing abuse. "I… I…"

"Do _not_ … tell her!" Obi-Wan gasped, panting. "Listen to me!"

But when the mechanical tormentors raised their pikes for the sixth time, she cried out. "No! No more! Stop, I implore you!"

"You are ready to cooperate?" Zan Arbor tapped a new entry into her evolving transcript.

"_NO!"_ Obi-Wan hollered, unbelieving. "No! Do not give in!"

Ue shook her head, mutely begging him to understand. He gritted his teeth and strained against his bonds, grasping at the chaotic Force, the splinters and atoms of his focus.

"He sent a data crystal. A small crystal, that is all – and he promised that a reader would follow. But it was never received. That is all; nothing more. There was no indication of its contents."

The scientist's sharp features relaxed. "The reader we recovered from his suite on Coruscant; it was never sent."

Ue straightened, vainly attempting to recompose herself. "Then your patron has nothing to fear. The matter is closed. For the love of –"

"Not quite," Zan Arbor purred,cutting off the querulous appeal. "Where is the crystal? My patron does not wish any loose ends to be left lying about."

Obi-Wan tipped his head back against the slick metal wall. Mushibi. Data crystal. _What did he send to your husband?_ Tamasu. The historical society. Friend of the family. _We meet now and then to discuss politics and history._ Conspiracy. Secret alliance. A realization started to break over his inner horizon, a blood –red dawn of understanding. He closed his eyes, sucked in a centering breath.

_NO, no – focus on the present moment – not on –_

"Where is the data crystal now?" their captor demanded, voice like an edged hammer, striking against pliant, battered iron.

Ue swallowed, anguish carved deep in her face and eyes. "Obi-Wan," she breathed.

_Force. How could he have been so blind, so stupefied and distracted – _

"Tell me," their eager inquisitor repeated, raising her hand again. The droids prepared for another assault.

"Please, no!" Ue shouted. "I beg you, as you are a woman, as you have any pity within you! This is cruelty beyond endurance! No more!"

"Stimulus, and response. It is simple behavioral conditioning," the other woman snapped. "I will ask you one more time: where is it now?"

Obi-Wan braced himself, mind racing. If the precious – and damning- information was still stored on the mysterious crystal, it could be retrieved. It might lead them to Zan Arbor's patron, to the highest levels of this new organization. It might contain other clues, warnings of disaster to come, vital intelligence. It was vital that Zan Arbor _not_ retrieve it, whatever the cost. "Do not yield!" he urged, voice cracking.

Ue, in her own quiet way, was on the brink of unreason. "Do not ask this of me!" she begged him.

"Your honor demands it! Be strong!"

Zan Arbor snorted. "Shut him up."

Fire slammed into his midriff, streaked liquid and excoriating through every nerve. He convulsed,tossed helplessly on a sea of pain, clinging to a fragmented shard of the Force, a drowning man adrift in a consuming vortex. The cell eruptedinto smearing cris=mson and black, sound unraveled into an eternal scream, into hoarse sobs. He crumbled, smoldered into ash, and then hung limp, breaths dragging in shuddering spurts through spasming lungs.

_There is no death, there is the Force. There is no death, there is the Force._

"The central nervous system can only stand so much voltage," a cool voice declaimed. "Your reticence is his death warrant."

"Please, in the name of merciful heaven!" Ue sobbed.

_Be strong daijisa, do not yield…. _Secret alliance. Historical society. Paper and ink. Seniiko's antique machines…. Loom, thresher, motors…_ printing press!_ He groaned. No. No. Sons of Liberty. We meet to discuss politics and history. _When in the course of sentient affairs it becomes necessary…._ Mushibi. Oneku. Seniiko. Tamasu Kenobi. _Traitors._

Printing press. _Oh Force._ What had Mushibi discovered? And about whom? Or was Mushibi the villain, the treacherous seditious plot-mongering _pustule_ upon his world's honor, a cancer growing in the heart of the Republic?

He lifted his head a few centimeters and looked at Ue with new eyes. _Traitoress._ How could that_ be_?

Zan Arbor's touch seemed to burn. "I can protract the pain indefinitely," she promised. "It requires a precise calibration of power, just enough to fuse the nerve endings and induce a –"

"No, I beg you! Anything!"

Weak. Weak, blind, foolish traitoress. He sobbed, choking on a nameless emotion, one novel and seductive.

Zan Arbor paced across the cell again. "Where is it?"

The battle was lost, but not by him. Ue blinked, surrender fluttering in her despairing sigh. Zan Arbor hissed, and then laughed. "Of course. All that effort when I might have _plucked_it from you at any time." She reached out one hand and tore the pendant jewel from her captive's neck, closing hard fingers about the prize. "Very clever, daijisa, hiding it in the open. Worthy of a Jedi."

Ue's defeated gaze rested upon him, in mute supplication. He turned his face away. _No. No. _Bitterness filed his mouth, roared in his ears.

Zan Arbor dropped the delicate crystal to the deck and ground it to dust beneath her boot heel. "Excellent. My patron will be relieved to know this is destroyed."

Silence fell, the last annihilating blow. Ue wept softly, shorn of dignity and respect.

"Leave them here while I make a report. I want them both for private experimentation."

Somebody- or something- released the magneto clamps, sending the young Jedi sliding bonelessly to the floor. Ue was tossed roughly into the opposite corner, and the energy field snapped into place over the cell entrance. Zan Arbor's brisk footfalls faded away down the dim corridor, the droids clanking in her wake.

Obi-Wan curled on one side, marshalling the dregs of consciousness, of resolve. The Force, the Light… he had to escape. He was shaking violently, teeth chattering in his head.

Dimly, he registered the rustle of cloth, the warmth of a hand pressed to his cheek.

"Please, please forgive me, daiji-aso, I could not bear it, I –"

He pushed her solicitous touch away. _Traitor._ He had _no time_ for such … such….

"Obi-Wan," she pled with him, voice breaking piteously.

"_Leave me alone,"_ he snarled, and was gratified by her immediate compliance.

Foreign, compelling emotion soured the very Force. He knelt, almost doubled over, and called upon the Light for guidance and strength. A solution would present itself.

A way _out _ of this waking nightmare. Even if there was no escape from the bitter truth.

* * *

The generator station was no match for Qui-Gon; it took mere minutes to fight his way through the six droid patrol company, disable the decrepit security system, locate the power couplings, and to carve vicious lines through the main feedback lines. His emerald 'saber blade rejoiced in the straightforward destruction, thrumming hot in his hand as he seared a direct oath through outer hatches and seals into the thing's viscera.

And then ran, sprinting flat out across the bleak landscape and throwing himself behind a tumble of bleached rock an instant before the station blew, sparks and slag cartwheeling sky high, an angry conflagration that tumbled resentfully to the surface in a dark and smoking rain. Terajon's marbled face looked down at his effrontery with solemn mien, saying nothing.

A few seconds later, the distant sentinel tower floodlights blinked out, the protective dome sputtered and sizzled as it reverted to stored power, and the dull echo of klaxons howled up from beneath the surface, fluting out of the vents like the mournful notes of a Vetruvian pipe organ.

When the dome failed, the entire complex would be destroyed. Time was limited, and the stakes high. He gripped his 'saber's hilt and sprang forward again, the Force pounding strident warning in his blood.


	24. Chapter 24

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 24**

The shuttle punched a ragged hole in the failing protective dome, an aperture slow to mend and leaving a tell-tale static vortex behind. Qui-Gon estimated _twenty minutes_ – at most- before the secondary power tanked out and the energy bubble disappeared, instantly depressurizing the complex beneath. Jaw set, he spun the ship into a tight docking and slammed open the ramp.

The nearest ventilation chimney was narrow, but a swift reconnaissance of the ridge yielded a likelier insertion point. Warm, humid air – the result of an active 'cycler and heat pump- wafted up through the dark tunnel. He secured his cable's grappling end to the rim, and disappeared over the slick edge, rapelling down the narrow shaft in long bounds, the curves of its sides brushing against his broad shoulders as he descended.

He burst through a grille at the tunnels far end, landing on an empty stretch of corridor in a full crouch, the inseams of the much-abused pressure suit finally splitting in protest . It would have been humorous in other circumstances; he felt a brief flare of regret that Obi-Wan had not been here to witness and memorialize the event with some impertinent joke. 'Saber in hand, he crept along the dimly illumined passage, senses unfurled in every direction. Droid patrols stalked the upper levels; a handful of sentients populated the wing behind him. And – straight ahead – that stuttering but bright beacon flare in the Force.

His progress was barred by a detail of battle droids – huge, lumbering manikins, wielding pikes.

"Halt intruder," a grating vocabulator rasped.

His 'saber snapped into brilliant life, singing bold defiance. Green fire swept a blinding ribbon in the tight space, shrieking cacophony rising above the dull sirens as plasma blade squealed against energy pike, fire sparking frenetically about the clashing foes. There was no time for finesse: the tall man spun, savagely cleaving the machines in two, blade screaming as it sheared torso from head, tip form haft, scarred the walls as he reverse cut and sliced the remaining bot to molten-edged slag.

He vaulted over the heap of scrap and plunged onward, into the first row of cells, what must once have been a solitary confinement level. One door at the far end was activated; the two grey-uniformed guards drew blasters upon him the moment he appeared.

Shots rebounded into floor and ceiling; the next volley were deflected back at the men themselves. The attackers fell, sprawling on the decks.

"Daijon Jinn!" Ue appeared behind the shimmering barrier, face drawn and hair loosened from its coils. Desperation and terror emanated from her in waves. He studied the code-key panel for three heartbeats then plunged his weapon into its heart, shorting out the whole system; the overwrought woman all but collapsed into his arms as she tottered across the threshold.

"Master Jinn.. please forgive me… I – that evil woman!"

Grief rendered her incoherent. With a meaningless syllable or two, and a generous spurt of Force suggestion, he shepherded the unfortunate captive into a corner and dropped to one knee, seizing Obi-Wan by the shoulders.

The young Knight looked up at him, relief and gratitude blooming like heliotropes beneath a morning sun. His mental shields were ravaged; the last hour's struggle scrawled across his psyche in bold, burning lines, the obscene graffiti of some underlevel lowlife.

"Padawan!" Strong hands gripped hard at shaking muscles.

Obi-Wan blinked, grabbing the Jedi master's tabards, too far gone to notice – or resent- the verbal slip. "Zan Arbor," he grated out.

Qui-Gon's blood ran cold, then hot. But there was no time. "We have ten minutes. Can you walk?"

They clambered upright together, Ue pressing in close, one hand clutching at the tall man's sleeve. "But the guards," she whispered, appalled.

They could not leave the way he had come; neither of his companions would be able to climb back through the chimney. Which left only the main gates, and a mad dash for the shuttle before the sheltering dome collapsed, leaving them at the mercy of airless void. There was little other choice. "This way," he ordered, pushing ahead. Obi-Wan sagged against him, drawing upon the elder man's strength without shame or hesitation, pride and independence momentarily forgotten.

They made it as far as the initial airlock before disaster struck. A droid contingent barred the exit, a weird architecture of articulated legs and bizarre insectoid armor plates the Jedi master had never before seen. The metallic creatures unfolded before his eyes, swelling like mantis, twin blaster cannon embedded in their wing-like extremities.

"Stop right there," a pitiless voice commanded.

Qui-Gon turned on one heel, eyes narrowing as he recognition dawned. Jenna Zan Arbor, flanked by a small covey of uniformed minions, stood leering at the knot of escaped prisoners. "You," he breathed, gut tightening. A Jedi shall know not revenge. Nor anger.

"You're hopelessly outnumbered," the wicked scientist pointed out. "Your weapon, Master Jinn. I'm compiling quite a collection today." Her grip tightened about a small hard-case, victory curving the cormers of her thin lips upward.

Obi-Wan's fingers tightened painfully about his arm, a fierce and desperate image blazing simultaneously across their bond, the Force compacting them in a single deadly purpose, an alliance and unity more vital than breath or blood.

_Now, Master!_

They moved as one: Obi-Wan flung himself sideways, flinging both arms around Ue's waist and diving for the decks, while Qui-Gon extended a hand and summoned his companion's 'saber from the plastoid case. The gargoylish droids opened fire; Obi-Wan skidded and rolled beneath the firestorm carrying Ue with him; two 'saber blades leapt from their hilts, blazing in tandem as Qui-Gon displayed a formidable two-bladed style, carving a howling defensive hurricane about himself while cannon blasts exploded in every direction.

Ue cried out as their wild somersault carried them beneath the tapered legs of the assault droids and brought them up hard against the sealed doors with a breathtaking _thump._ Obi-Wan slammed a hand against the unyielding panels, and _yelled—_the Force exploding behind his temples, blacking out sound and color, consuming him utterly.

The durasteel slabs parted in a shower of sparks; plasma bolts ricocheted wildly off the roof, blew chunks out of the wall – and with a deafening baritone gong note, the protective dome generator expired. Immediately, an invisible vortex opened, a howling maw sucking every particle of air and matter into the open void beyond.

Droids were lifted off the decks and flung pell mell into the vacuum; Zan Arbor and her companions shrieked in dismay, scrabbling for purchase against the walls, bellowing and screaming orders above the unholy clamor. Obi-Wan grabbed desperately for Ue, felt himself slide, his boots skidding uselessly on slick decks, finding no purchase, instinct prompting him to slew sideways into a supporting strut. Qui-Gon slammed into the pillar beside him, fisted a hand in his tunics and _nailed_ him in place with the Force, a ruthless imposition of superior skill, of sheer _mastery._

The tall man's shouted words were whipped away in the torrent but their intent was clear._Run. The shuttle. Now._

The Jedi master slung Ue over one broad shoulder and threw bodily himself into the ravening storm beyond, Obi-Wan stumbling at his heels, bound invisibly to the tall man's presence, _held_ _fast_ against the powerful currents, the claws that sought to rend him apart, sweep him out into the black, airless wasteland beyond. They pelted across the short ridge, down the intervening slope, and into the shuttle's hold, tumbling in a panting heap at the ramp's base, choking for want of oxygen even as the hatches sealed and the cabin pressurizers ground into action.

Ue was white as a sheet, and unconscious. Qui-Gon laid her gently on the deck and stumbled for the cockpit, leaving Obi-Wan to collect himself, gasping on hands and knees as the exertion of the last minutes and hours took its toll, as blackness swirled seductively around his senses, as the small vessel lifted off the moon's pocked surface and fled for the more hospitable planet below.

His heart hammered, his lungs burned, his body ached miserably. He raised a trembling hand and pushed damp hair out of his eyes, vision blearing with migraine. Trap. Poison. Betrayal. Treason. Failure. A delicate crystal crushed to fine powder beneath fate's cruel heel. He squinted sideways at Ue, who lay deathly pale, a fragile mortal shell woven about an inscrutable mystery.

He pressed his forehead against the deck plates, relishing the coolness against fevered skin. _I have much, much still to learn._ The drives thrummed below him, the vessel lurched as the gravitational compensators adjusted to free flight, Qui-Gon returned to the hold, briefly splaying a hand between his shoulder blades.

"Peace," the Jedi master murmured, a thread of worry in his mellow tones.

It was exhortation, admonition, and reassurance all in one, an invitation to seek solace in the Force's depths, in the haven of no place no history no self. Such might be construed as a coward's choice, the path of least resistance ; however, this once, just this once, he opted for the easy way out and slipped – gratefully, obediently - into welcome oblivion.

* * *

Tamasu was the first to emerge from the subterranean bunker's inky depths, a dumbstruck Kashi-Tan at his elbow. The voices of Oneku, and the redoubtable Seniiko, and a handful of others, echoed up the passage behind him.

"Is that Daijon Jinn?"

"Is that an all clear? Might we come up?"

"Stars' end… is it over then?"

The silver haired patrician clasped Qui-Gons' hand wrist to wrist. "Where is my wife, Master Jedi?"

"She is safe enough. And the threat to your lives has, I believe, been neutralized."

"Thank merciful heaven… where is Ue, did you say?"

Qui-Gon led father and son back to the shuttle's open ramp, while Seniiko shepherded the remaining refugees into his ramshackle and sprawling domicile, calling for a droid steward to bring up several bottles from the cellar.

"Ama!" Kashi-Tan pushed forward, wrapping his mother in a tight embrace, one the lady returned in kind. They remained so for a long minute, until the happy reunion was widened to include Tamasu. He took his wife's hand and bestowed upon it a very tender kiss.

"I thought I had lost you, _dim'pma…_ but fate has been undeservedly kind to this old fool. Are you well?"

Ue smoothed back her disorderly hair, clinging to her spouse. "I am … but 'Asu, we must speak…" She cast a wary glance at Qui-Gon, then lowered her eyes. "We _must_ speak. My heart is sorely burdened."

The patriarch gathered his wife to him. "We will return to the house. Daijon Kaimaru shall be summoned – he is both skilled and trustworthy and can make you comfortable there."

"But.. Iko-re – those brigands struck him down- where is he? Is he-"

Qui-Gon soothed her anxiety. "Atasowen accompanied him to the medcenter. He will recover."

"He was brave, "Ue murmured into her husband's shoulder, visibly wilting in the aftermath of the long ordeal. "So brave. He fought like a wildcat for me… my poor Iko."

"We shall have him home too, _daijisa,"_ Tamasu promised. Then, as though completing a mental inventory, he looked searchingly about him, then up at the shuttle's hull. "What of …?"

The Jedi master dipped his head. "Is Daijon Kaimaru a medic?"

"A highly skilled one; he has served our family and many others for thirty years. "

"Good. I must speak with Daijon Ichiru; I presume she is also welcome beneath your roof?"

Tamasu stilled his wife's agitated hand, smoothing it against his breast. "Her presence would honor our hearth. May I ask what has transpired?"

But the Jedi master merely smiled thinly. "I am not entirely sure myself. I hope that others may enlighten us later." He fixed Ue with a penetrating look, one which she stonily returned, high color creeping into her face again. "You, Daijon, should continue ahead with your family. We shall follow after."

Accepting the mild remand, and eager himself to reach the end of this day's surreal events and the comfort represented by _home,_ Tamasu consented with a short nod. "Our deepest gratitude, Master Jinn."

"We come to serve," the tall man responded, watching pensively as the threesome strolled away together,in a close-knit knot.

In this case, however, it was unclear whose best interests had been so served. He ducked inside the shuttle, checked on Obi-Wan – who remained sunk in a profound and inviolable healing trance – and settled into the pilot's seat with a long sigh. There was much still to be accomplished, if he truly wished to keep the peace on Terajon.


	25. Chapter 25

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 25**

The family's arthritic pets licked Qui-Gon's hands and whined for his attention, tails wagging lackadaisically as they sniffed at his boots and trouser knees, reading what dim narrative of his adventures might be gleaned from subtle scent. He remained patiently waiting, eyes tracing over the groomed and pedicured landscape to either side of the drive, thumbs hooked through his belt, mind sunk deep in the moment, where possibilities bloomed like lotus upon a supernal pond.

Minister Ichiru appeared, with her personal aides and helmeted guard, just after midday. The aircar cavalcade pulled to a halt and disgorged the elaborately coiffed and be-robed head of state, silver hair pulled into a severe sculpture and surmounted by a peculiar headdress. "Daijon Jinn," she greeted the Jedi master, mounting the creaking steps with great dignity

The beasts bayed loudly and were apologetically pulled away by Kashi-Tan, who popped out of the open doorway to effect this small service.

Tamasu ushered his honored guest into his home personally, wishing much peace upon her coming and guiding the entire retinue into a formal parlor on the first floor. The droid served tea, handing round the exquisite ceremonial bowls with exacting form, and retired into a corner to await further instruction.

"You have good news," the premier said, when the niceties had been completed.

Qui-Gon inclined his head. "Moderately good. The organization responsible for Senator Mushibi's death, and the further attacks here on Terajon, has been indentified and its local seat of operations neutralized. I think it unlikely that the group will attempt further terrorism on this system, at least in the foreseeable future, having shown their hand early, and to Jedi witnesses."

Ichiru balanced her bowl upon its delicate saucer. "And the identity of this organization?"

The Jedi master raised his brows. "Will remain classified, as part of a galactic security investigation."

The Prime Minister's composure faltered a trifle, her dander raised by this blithe declaration. "Surely as premier of the Stewardship, I have some right to know who is responsible for such villainy?"

"I am sorry. The Jedi Council will report to the Chancellor's office; you may sue for further disclosure through official channels."

Ichiru's mouth thinned. "I see." Too wise to press a losing agenda, she shifted tactics. "I may, then, stand assured that the secessionist propaganda originated with this off-world group? It is inconceivable that Terajon should be the origin of such dishonor and scandal."

The tall man set his bowl upon the inlaid table. "If, as you say, it is inconceivable, then that is the only possible conclusion."

Tamasu Kenobi remained stolidly reticent, the demure host.

"Good." The premier rose, gowns rustling."You have brought great lightness to my heart, and served the Stewardship well, Master Jinn. You have our gratitude."

The Jedi master rose, making his formal bow. "We come to serve."

"Daijon Kenobi," Ichiru smiled. "Perhaps you will escort me about your gardens? It is a lovely day."

The family patriarch bowed his acquiescence and proffered his arm. "At your leisure, Daijon."

They filed out through the double doors leading onto the back gardens, an elegant procession as pruned and trellised as any plant growing by the orderly wayside of their chosen path. Qui-Gon watched them amble into the herbarium maze and then headed upstairs on his own errand.

* * *

The medic was a short but robust man, silver hair bound in a long plait down his back, a wide sleeved healer's robe tossed nonchalantly over wiry shoulders.

"Daijon Kaimaru," the tall Jedi greeted him upon the landing. "Are your patients well?"

The energetic doctor shooed his droid assistant out of the nearest doorway and folded his hands. "The daijisa is resting peacefully, and Iko-Re – that hopeless scamp – his head is hard enough to withstand a harder blow than that. We'll monitor him closely of course.. concussion is tricky business… but I feel confident that he will recover nicely, so long as we can keep him _down_ long enough. I remember once when he had the Dengar flu as a wee lad, he wouldn't stay in bed for the life of him, it drove his mother quite to distraction. A sign of things to come," he added, with a small chuckle.

"You have known the family a great many years."

Kaimaru waved a hand. "Every _daiso_ in this sector, thirty two years and more. The modern medcenters are becoming more common, alas – but the old ways still exist here among the better families. Certainly this one. I delivered all three boys, for that matter - oh dear, I may have said too much, very few know about… but perhaps, you being a Jedi –"

The tall man smiled. "On that topic, I wonder whether you might have a look at my companion."

The garrulous doctor brought his wandering attention back to center. "Yes, of course – however I may be of service. But Tamasu said his two sons… is Kashi-Tan injured as well? I saw 'Owen earlier, he was hale and hearty. Nobody said anything about…._oh._ Ohhh."

Qui-Gon raised his brows and opened the last door on the left. "I will stay; you may require reinforcements," he grimly predicted.

"Stars' end," Kaimaru breathed, entering the dimly lit room. "How time flies. And to think…." He bent over the bed's sleeping occupant, laying two fingers over a pulse-point.

The young Jedi stirred groggily, gaze drifting vaguely about the unfamiliar surroundings until it lighted on Qui-Gon's face. "…Nng?"

The older man smiled. "No. Terajon. This is Medic Kaimasu."

The word "medic" had a predictable effect: in the next instant, Obi-Wan was bolt upright, the thumb of his right hand almost imperceptibly twitching forward, the tiny motion required to hit a 'saber's activation switch. Qui-Gon chuckled richly, and shoved his friend back down against the luxuriant pillows. "_Relax."_

Kaimasu for his part bobbed up and down upon the soles of his feet and beamed paternalistically. "Well, this is a most pleasant surprise. It has been a long, long time since I've laid eyes on _you,_ Bibi-Wan."

Confusion flashed in the Force, even as Obi-Wan shot a suspicious glare at the Jedi master, whose grey eyes crinkled merrily at the corners.

The tall man spread his hands, proclaiming his innocence.

"I.. have not the honor of your acquaintance," the young Jedi hoarsely insisted, "Though you seem to know me." Another accusing glance at Qui-Gon.

Kaimasu summoned his droid assistant forward. "If you will permit, Master Jedi….?" He paused, mischievously. "I assume I will not need to ask the daijisa to _hold you down,_ hm?"

"I can act as proxy," the Jedi master interjected, mouth quirking.

"You can _try,_" his former apprentice grumbled, nonetheless meekly submitting to the indignity of the droid's scanners and prodding.

Kaimasu tutted and muttered over the lengthy readouts. "Stars' end… this is outside my general scope… but let's see… yes, I think…." He peered at his patient critically. "How are you _feeling,_ may I ask?"

Obi-Wan cocked a defiant brow at Qui-Gon and blandly assessed his own condition. "Like a scorched bantha turd, thank you."

Kaimasu's eyes widened but he ventured no comment upon the deliberately uncivilized turn of phrase. "Toxemia… nerve inflammation.. yes, yes, I shall send away for some things. In the meantime, you stay put. And sleep . I can prescribe a very effective-"

"No need," Obi-Wan dismissed him. "My humble thanks."

Kaimasu was oblivious to the irony. "It's not every day I have a Jedi under my care… but then, we're old friends. He was a very healthy infant, you know. Fat and rosy cheeked, bawled fit to wake the dead- good pair of lungs on him, eh." He packed away the droid's equipment again and bumbled out, leaving the subject of this discourse in fulminating silence.

"Fat and rosy cheeked," Qui-Gon mused, unsuccessfully disguising his amusement.

Obi-Wan crossed his arms, narrowed eyes sliding sideways. "He's going to send for some _things."_ A hearty snort. "I'm done here." He made a concerted effort at escape, flinging aside the synth-fiber quilts and springing to his feet with a small grunt. He made it a full three paces toward the door before his knees buckled; Qui-Gon deftly maneuvered him back to the palette's edge.

"We are far from done here," he replied, sinking down beside his young friend.

Obi-Wan stewed in his own thoughts for a long minute, arms crossed over his bare chest, feverish skin goose-pimpling in the cool air. "We should submit a report to the Council and hand over the mission to another team."

The tall man's brows rose. "That is _my_ decision, in respect of seniority."

A prolonged scowl. Then, "Master. I have seen and heard enough. It is not appropriate for me to remain here, under this roof, while- "

"While I complete the mission objective? The elections must proceed, Obi-Wan; and I am duty bound to see them through to an equitable resolution. That is why we are here. Anything else is secondary."

"I cannot speak to her again."

Qui-Gon looked askance at his former student. "Who? Zan Arbor?"

"_Daijisa Kenobi."_

Ah. He exhaled slowly.

But the Yamalsa calming breath did not suffice for two. "This was _your_ star-forsaken idea, Qui-Gon." A burning pause, in which the young Jedi's glower bored into the opposite wall. "Your project. Your need. Your desire to thwart the Precepts. I bent my own principles for _you,_ and I've tasted the fruits of such false compassion. I erred, and I accept the burden of that error, but do not _lecture me_ about the folly of the Code when its wisdom is _burning_ in my veins." He hunched forward, curling around some immaterial and aching wound.

The tall Jedi reached a hand sideways, to rest upon the young man's knee. "Bitterness does not lend clarity," he warned.

"Clarity?" Obi-Wan scoffed. He was shaking now, agitation enhancing the baleful effect of fever. "Had I not been _blinded_ by this… sentimental agenda of yours – had I not _allowed _myself to wallow in _attachment- _I would have seen. I would have sensed their deception, found the conspiracy, sensed that Mushibi's accomplices would be the target, discovered that secret data crystal, perhaps saved it from destruction. We might have been led to New Dawn's patron, uprooted the whole filthy operation! I might have _hunted down_ Zan Arbor. And …"

"Killed her yourself?" That was a dangerous thought, one redolent of Dooku's haughty outlook.

"She's dead anyhow."

But it was perhaps recklessly optimistic to suppose such a thing. They had survived the lunar base's destruction; there was no reason to think the wicked scientist's luck had abandoned her, either. Qui-Gon tightened his grip on the young Jedi's knee. "You are ill. This is fever speaking."

"NO!" Obi-Wan leapt up again, eyes ablaze with self-contempt. "This is _my failure_ speaking! You urged me to seek out my birth origins, my family, My roots. I have, Master, and I find them vile and dishonorable, weak and corrupted. And I –" he sought words, vainly. "I was prepared to _embrace_ them. My own pathetic life forms." He looked away, then sagged against the wall. "….Forgive me. I need to meditate. I need-"

"You need to sleep. Medic Kaimasu was right."

Obi-Wan rested his head against the wall, miserably. "Forgive me. I …I am shaming myself."

"You are growing into wisdom," Qui-Gon corrected him, placidly. "It is natural to stumble on such a narrow path." They would face this obstacle, this sharp turning in the road, together. When the moment was right. With the Force as guide and support. But now was not that time, soon though the reckoning of accounts must be. Obi-Wan was still too fresh from the ordeal, or he would not exhibit such unembarrassed passion. How very, very deep ran the rivers of his conviction – a cataract of vital energy only rarely glimpsed, less often acknowledged.

"I need to meditate."

"You need to rest."

"We're saying the same thing."

Qui-Gon released his vexation on a long breath, and folded himself onto the floor in meditation posture. His recalcitrant young friend knelt beside him, shivering. They closed their eyes, reached for the Force's soothing currents, and plunged into the ethereal stream of being and becoming, that which surrounded them, penetrated them, bound all things together.

If, within the span of five minutes, Obi-Wan slumped gently sideways against the Jedi master's shoulder, his barely achieved trance melting into simple, restorative _sleep,_ Qui-Gon merely interpreted this as the Force's generous affirmation that he was, in accord with his not-quite-renounced masterly prerogatives, _right._

"I told you so," he murmured, smugly.


	26. Chapter 26

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 26**

"Is my proposal acceptable to you, Daijon Ichiru?"

The premier sat erect in her high backed chair, expression betraying nothing, her veined hands clasped tightly upon the desktop. "Acceptable, Master Jinn? No. But inevitable, if we are to avoid further… embarrassment."

"The Supreme Chancellor is willing to grant a special dispensation immediately. I believe this measure will be effective in quelling the rivalry between your partisans."

The silver haired woman looked older today, burdened by her office. "It will affirm and deepen the rift between them, as well. But there is little choice."

"Indeed not." The Jedi master remained standing respectfully before her, hands folded in opposite sleeves. "I believe both sides are more eager to prevent their perceived opponents from seizing power, than to secure it for themselves."

"And with the loss of our Senate seat, we also lose our unique voice in galactic affairs."

Qui-Gon dipped his head. "The subsidiarity system grants each what it desires; as a constituent of the Mid Rim trading alliance and the Celsior district voting union, each party will be represented by a larger conglomerate in alignment with its principles. Though, I will admit, the Stewardship will be subjected to the anonymity of such provisions." He did not trust the new corporate voting model, himself; but with so many thousands of systems needing representation in the galactic senate, it made pragmatic sense to subsume groups of ten to fifty under larger umbrella organizations, each with _one_ senate voice. His initial suggestion to cede Terajon's hereditary seat had not been received with enthusiasm – but Minister Ichiru's determination to circumvent further conflict had swayed her conviction in the end.

"It is an inglorious end to our present crisis," she insisted.

The Jedi master raised his brows. "I am here as a keeper of the peace; and peace is sometimes inglorious or humble."

Mouth turning down as though savoring some bitter flavor, the premier affixed her thumbprint and official seal to the document before her. "So be it. I shall console myself with the knowledge that at least our world's honor is not tarnished by proponents of treason. That, Master Jinn, would be beyond endurance, a shame to our every ancestor and our entire history."

He bowed, and took his leave with measured stride.

As he had once theatrically demonstrated - much to the astonishment and edification of a certain wide-eyed padawan – the best way to resolve a perfect stalemate was to simply sweep all the pieces off the playing board.

* * *

"You _what?"_ Obi-Wan rasped, looking much as he had that afternoon when the dramatic _stalemate_ lesson had first been taught.

"I have found a satisfactory resolution."

"You solved the election problem, by eliminating the need for an _election_?" The young Jedi's voice hit a comical pitch of disbelief.

Qui-Gon tilted his chin up, obstinately. "If you have a superior suggestion, by all means enlighten me, Obi-Wan."

The latter person fell back against his mound of pillows and looked sidelong into the Force, as though making some droll observation to a hidden audience. His gaze flicked back to Qui-Gon a moment later. "I am _not_ going to be present for that portion of the Council debriefing," he declared.

Qui-Gon snorted. "Ki Adi Mundi and Master Gallia thought the idea highly appropriate given the circumstances – though I will grant you Mace was not impressed, but that has more to do with me than the any inherent merit of the arrangement."

"What about Master Yoda?" the younger man demanded, cagily.

"Ah. Yes….. Well."

"Definitely _not_ involved," Obi-Wan decided. "I was completely incapacitated at the time, and unable to contribute my _insight."_

The tall man's lopsided smile did nothing to pacify him.

"It is not funny, Master."

But Qui-Gon expertly diverted his friend's annoyance into alternate channels. "I was simply wondering if Ben To Li ought not to take lessons from Daijon Kaimaru – you appear, against all precedent, to be _following medical advice."_

"I have been thinking."

"About?"

"Zan Arbor's words. She claimed that a keen analyst could elicit any response from a given subject, simply by applying the right pressure. Stimulus, in her words. "

"The idea of shatterpoints," Qui-Gon remarked. "A wisdom not limited to those with compassionate intention, unfortunately."

"She knew exactly what _shatterpoint_ would break her victim. "

The Jedi master drew in a deep breath and studied his companion soberly. "I sense _disappointment_ in you. Why?"

It took a long moment for Obi-Wan to reply. "She broke under interrogation," he said, finally, his tone severely flattened into control.

"I see. Is that so blameworthy?"

"You would not have yielded, Master. "

"I am a trained Jedi."

"And strength is not monopolized by the Jedi order; you have said that yourself, time and time again. "

"Nor is weakness limited to those outside it. What makes you so _very_ certain _ I_ would not have yielded in the same circumstance?"

Obi-Wan favored him with a roundly skeptical glare. "I _know_ you would not put personal attachment above duty. You would have let me die, if need be. And I would do the same, were our places reversed."

"Are you so certain of that, either?"

The young Knight skewered the older man with a look full of hard-edged blue fire, the searing purity of a saber blade. "I will do what I must," he said. Then looked away, mental shields slamming into place with alarming ferocity.

The hard truth seemed to sear the air between them, leaving the faint ozone tang in its wake, a cold draught of wind off Ilum's sacred peaks.

Qui-Gon exhaled, slowly. "Our destiny is not a path laid before everyone," he gently admonished. "Do not blame those who tread upon a gentler way. It is they, after all, whom we exist to serve."

"I do not serve traitors," Obi-Wan insisted, focus still trained far away, on some impalpable horizon in the infinite Force. "And I do not call them brother – or father, or mother, or friend."

The tall man rose, heavily. "In your present mood, it is a wonder to me that you would call _anyone _by such a name – or deserve such honor in return." He took his leave, hardening his heart against the stinging welt his harsh reprisal left in the Force, and turned his steps toward those whose need for compassion and counsel was not couched in such barbed and scathing terms.

* * *

Iko-Re was diligently imposing a radical asceticism upon his quarters.

"I don't need all this stuff- I don't even want it anymore," he explained, tossing objects and garments into a pair of plastoid crates. The operation was somewhat hampered by the plasti-foam cast enclosing his right arm up to the shoulder, but his determination did not seem dampened by the handicap.

Qui-Gon watched from the doorway, in tacit approval.

The boy wiped sweat from his eyes with his good hand, and scowled at the heap of clothing upon his bed. "Somebody can make good use of that," he observed. "I just… I don't know. I need a change." He rummaged in a small cupboard and unearthed several half-full bottles of spirits. He sloshed their contents and then shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Swill," he said, dumping their contents into the fresher basin with an impressive affectation of stoic indifference. "Expensive swill, I grant you, but…."

"There are better remedies to boredom."

"Do you think Mum will be safe without me?" Iko-Re asked, suddenly.

The Jedi master pretended to consider the matter gravely. "She has survived these many years without your obedient devotion," he pointed out.

The boy's shoulders slumped.

"What do you plan to do?"

The last superfluous electronic device plunked into a crate atop the jumbled detritus of Iko-Re's former existence. "I'm joining the Service Corps, like you said. My father has given his blessing, but I haven't told Mum… yet. Announcing it to her just… well, it makes it _final._ 'Owen will be the only one left at home, and he's just so… responsible."

The tall man leaned in the doorframe. "Responsibility is not a character flaw."

"I mean he's _reliable._ You know, salt of the earth. Never looks up. Probably doesn't even know there are stars in the sky. Doesn't even have a romantic interest. " A pained pause. "There _are_ women in the Service Corps? – human ones, I mean."

"Fraternization is highly discouraged."

Iko-Re heaved a sigh. "Could be worse," he muttered, cryptically.

"It could indeed," the Jedi dryly concurred.

Attention span as short-lived and mercuric as a luminous day-moth on Vetruvia, the boy lighted upon a wholly unrelated idea. "My bike," he said, brightening. "I won't need it and I'm _not_ giving it to Kashi. DO you think, I mean…. I'd like to – you know.. if he would like it, I mean. It's a _beast_ of a machine."

"Ah." Qui-Gon suppressed a quiet chuckle. "Jedi are not permitted to accept gifts. But I am sure he will be suitably flattered by the offer."

"Damn. Kashi gets it after all. What a waste." Iko-Re finished his packing and surveyed the bare room with critical eye. "Look at that . Downright monastic in here. Like I don't have any past." His mood abruptly sobered.

"You may choose to look at it that way.. or you may see it as open for the future. Much depends on one's point of view."

Iko displayed his extravagant dimples. "My point of view is headed down to dinner," he proclaimed. "Coming?"

* * *

_There was a world full of sweet grass and towering tree, white flowers dancing resplendent beneath the glorious sun, faces turned upwards while bottomless heaven reeled above, blue upon blue. _

_Now there is a world of sculptured columns and soaring halls, a heaven traced with foreign constellations, statues and arched windows, the elusive scent of incense floating everywhere, chimes sounding inaudibly, waters flowing sweet and strong, and everywhere the rustle of robes, the soft pad of stately tread._

_Sometimes he remembers the first world, and sometimes it fades into dream. At other times he forgets all but the resounding fullness of this new place, but at other times the very plenitude of Light reflects back to him some shimmering image of the other one, the Before._

_He cries at night, that buried scream of parting eked out into a whimper and a moan, and he is comforted by strong arms and gentle words. Eventually he learns the words, and much later he understands them._

_By day he is surrounded by others, and wanders happily among the vast corridors of this Now, vaguely aware that he stands upon the brink of Hereafter. He listens for the wind chimes, the reed bells that hung in the garden – in that other place – and he discovers by accident that a deeper music runs true through every hidden nook of this white and shining garden. _

_He stops crying at night._

_The reed chimes fade, and are replaced by sonorous Light. _

_The field widens into a star-map, and a slow-spinning galaxy._

_The voices, that loveliest voice of all, blend inevitably into a chorus of others, wise and inscrutable._

_The heliotropes reach sunward when he learns his first _kata; _the blue sky smiles down when the scudding clouds of infancy part, and his mind first touches the All._

_One world gives way to another, until there is only one. _

_The Force is origin and destination, parent and teacher, home and final consolation. A Jedi needs no other, and craves none beside. There is no emotion, no passion, no ignorance, no chaos, no true birth or death._

_There is only the Force._

In. Out. Release. Center.

_There is only the Force…. And that which it surrounds, and penetrates, and binds together. The One and the living, the Hidden and the manifest, the Solitary and the many, Unity and communion, Origin and beginning, Destiny and identity._

_In balance, without opposition. In opposition, without paradox. _

_The Force is everywhere. It surrounds us, penetrates us, binds all things together._

_All things. In harmony. In balance._

_Not -_

_-off balance, push feather Siri Ue falling birth death-_

_-no no no-_

In. Deeper. Center, center…. Out. Release? Release! In. Out. In. Hold. Hold...

_-blast it-_

Out. In. Out. In….

Out, in a veritable explosion of pique. Fine. _Fine._

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, hiccupping hard on the too-abrupt transition from deep trance into waking reality. The sun had set outside, bathing him in damask shadow, softening the edges of the room to the vague brushwork of hasty portrait. He knelt for a long time, unmoving, striving to rectify the fruits of his meditation with a lifetime's accrued conviction, the stirrings of some new seedling wisdom thrusting up painfully through deep-tilled soil.

The last glimmer of daylight petered out upon the far horizon, and still he remained motionless, waiting for this thing, this painful epiphany, to wilt or to bloom - for insight's first shocking squall, or for the delivery of its stillborn corpse.

Night came, and then midnight, and finally dawn. And when light touched the sky's sheltering dome again, he rose and girded himself for battle.

He could delay no longer.


	27. Chapter 27

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 27**

Trousers. The thick, tightly woven fiber, despite its quality, was starting to wear thin around the knees and at the hems. The latter fact signified little, since his boots would cover any fraying threads. Also, there was a scorch mark on the left leg and what _might_ be a stain here and there. Cream, according to Qui –Gons's exalted wisdom, was an impracticable color choice for pants, as it was unforgiving in this respect. Obi-Wan frowned over the discolored splotches then released his aggravation. Perhaps he would requisition some _darker_ pairs from the quartermaster soon; when these were thoroughly worn out, of course – a Jedi did not _waste,_ and he certainly did not indulge in personal vanity.

Boots. Handmade, even in this advanced age, to the most exacting standards. Field boots had to fit _perfectly;_ often enough they carried their wearer across unpredictable terrain, into battle, and sometime s through day and night without rest. They were painstakingly crafted to _fit, _ and to fit _well._ He fastened each buckle to a _precise_ snugness and checked that the nerf-leather did not require polishing. It did not; he was fastidious in the upkeep of his gear.

Inner tunic. Soft – too soft. The wash droid must have used some chemical additive to achieve this effect. The thin cloth was scented vaguely of crisp herbs, too – something the Temple laundry facilities never bothered with. Deciding that the deviation from_ standard form_ was not egregious enough to be counted as _luxuriant, _he pulled the clinging shirt down, sleeves bunching comfortably about the wrists, crossing both layers over his chest. There were lingering bruises from the electro-pikes; the faint _scritch_ of fabric over abused skin was a welcome counterpoint to the effete _texture _of the artificially softened fabric. He adjusted the "v" at his throat , pulled his hair loose from the collar in back.

Outer tunic. Heavier, also suspiciously redolent of herbal-scented cleaning liquid, but there was nothing to be done about it. Unfortunately, the scorch marks on this garment were all too apparent; it could only be hoped that his tabards and cloak would cover the most unsightly blemishes. The wide sleeves allowed free movement; the hems skimmed the top of his thighs. Older Jedi sometimes opted for a floor-length _cassock_ in lieu of the standard tunic; he wondered whether Qui-Gon would ever adopt such a uniform, and smirked a bit at the fanciful image this inspired. He carefully wrapped the garment, side over side, and fastened the inner ties. Simplicity, anonymity, practicality.

Tabards and sash. The long strips had been meticulously steam pressed flat, not a wrinkle marring their pristine lines. He thought briefly of thanking M80 for its service, not that a droid had any choice in the deployment of its personal resources and skills. The tabards lay over both shoulders, symbol of responsibility, the sacred burden of those born in the Light, the charge laid upon the Order as a whole. These were bound in place by the sash, wound firmly about his waist, circumscribing the vital organs, the solar plexus, the base passions. Discipline, asceticism: by means of these that oath was kept _secure, _that high purpose unwavering. He tugged the tabards straight again, and laid his belt on top of the sash, buckling it in place with deft fingers. He wasn't carrying much beyond commlink and a spare power cell in the belt pouches. A rebreather might be a smart addition - although it would have been useless against _dioxis,_ which deadly compound's molecules fused with ambient oxygen to make a yet deadlier side product. His searching fingers found the tiny river stone – his solitary concession to sentiment – tucked away in a small compartment. Qui-Gon must have found it and placed it there, a silent courtesy typical of the man, when he wasn't in _teaching_ mode. This treasure he tucked into an inner pocket, just, over his heart.

Cloak. This item alone had not been subjected to M80's ministrations, for it had been recovered from the memorial tomb after the fact. Its heavy umber drape was armor and disguise, protection from the elements and the universally recognized mantle of his _role._ The cowl fell in wide curves across shoulders and back; the sweeping sleeves were cut long enough to accommodate both hands folded in the traditional gesture of _patience,_ should occasion require it; the elegant fall of cloth reached the floor, grazing just above his heels. Its weight was intimately familiar. He had endured vast diplomatic ennui in this cloak, fought battles in it, trekked across desert and wasteland in it, slept soundly wrapped in its thick folds.

He pulled his freshly washed mane back and bound it in a fat chestnut tail at his nape, then held out a hand and summoned to himself the _last_ and most important thing of alL: a Jedi's _life._ The lightsaber, twin focusing crystals chiming faintly in the Force, he fixed it its appointed place at his belt, emblem and heritage of his calling. The weapon's dual heart continued to call to him, an inaudible chord welling endlessly in the plenum, a bell-note exhorting him to seek harmony, balance, the narrow road between abysmal extremes.

Thus armored and armed, he faced the task ahead, as a _Jedi, _ and as nothing more or less.

* * *

The family was gathered, antecedent to breakfast, in the smaller parlour on the ground floor. M80 bumbled among the chairs and settee, distributing caff, while a small holo-projector upon the low table cast the wavering effigy of Prime Minister Ichiru into the cool morning air. Shafts of morning light beamed through the open garden doors, dissolving the image's blue contours into a halo of golden dust-motes.

…_these recent outrages were the work of a foreign criminal syndicate. Propaganda pamphlets left at the bomb site at University of Terajon's Steard College, and at the recently desecrated historical landmark in the southern downs confirm that this group has a fanatical seccessionisit agenda. Jei from the Galactic Republic have identified and neutralized this threat to Terajon's security, enabling us to move forward together as a united…._

"May I offer you some freshly brewed arjees, Daijon?" the droid warbled at his elbow.

"Thank you – no, no suchra."

"Daijon Jinn, "Atasowen greeted him. "Have you heard the news?"

"Of course he's heard the news," Kashi –Tan snorted. "He _is _ the news. With respect, I mean, Master Jinn."

Iko-Re spilled his cup, his dexterity badly impacted by the cast. "Kriff it."

"Iko!"

"I'm sorry, Ama."

"Stop fussing, Iko – let me help you." Ue cleverly avoided the Jedi master's gaze, turning her back as she assisted her youngest son's clean up operation. "M80, a towel if you please."

…._in the interest of planetary security to join the voting conglomerates for this sector, both political and that pertaining to the trade franchises…_

Tamasu dipped his head in greeting as the Jedi master sat in the chair opposite. "Cut strife off in the bud, eh, Master Jinn? Let no flower bloom higher than another?"

The tall man cautiously took a first sip. "You will understand better than most, Daijon, how delicate the situation is here on the Stewardship."

The patriarch's blue eyes flashed combatively. "Your solution satisfies the desire of both fractious parties: the conservatives can hide beneath the skirts of the Trade guilds, while the progressives congratulate themselves on attaining the status of inconsequential goon to some vast conglomerate."

Both his sons raised their voices in vociferous objection, drowning out the holo.

"Peace," their father rumbled, setting his cup down sharply upon its delicate saucer.

"I'm famished," Iko-Re lamented.

"Daijon," Ue complained. "_Must_ we debate such things…. At every-" But her displeasure melted into alarm in the next instant, as she beheld the latest arrival to the party.

Obi-Wan swept into the parlor from the stairwell, cloak skirling hypnotically about his heels. He stood straight, posture bespeaking furled power, Jedi regalia and the Force's invisible battle standard rendering him every inch the intimidating warrior-sage. The spectacle proved momentarily breath-taking, except to Qui-Gon, whose grey eyes narrowed.

_Not good._

Obi-Wan bowed deeply to Ue and Tamasu. "Daijisa. Daijon."

The lady rose, one hand pressed against her heart. Tamasu moved to her side, a protective arm reaching about her waist.

"A word with you, please." The young Jedi's mental shields were unbreachable, his expression locked down.

M80, at the prompting of some inexplicable cybernetic instinct all its own, dithered quietly in the corner. "Oh dear, oh dear."

"Isn't breakfast ready _yet?"_Iko-Re broke the tension, pushing his brothers out the door ahead of him. The droid hastened in their wake, its servos creaking rapidly as it fled the scene of impending battle.

Qui-Gon also slowly stood, eyes locked on his former apprentice.

"In private, Master, if you please." The request was couched in exquisitely cultured tones, deceptively mild and deferential. But the Jedi master did not miss the underlying steel, the cold and deadly resolve of a man who has already sustained a mortal wound and wishes only to finish the fight on his own terms.

Qui-Gon lifted a brow. "I will remain, as mediator."

That was a slap in the face to any fellow Jedi, a subtle intimation that the other was _off balance,_ a disputant rather than a peacekeeper. Obi-Wan's color rose, and a wave of thundering resentment washed against the tall man's shores, breaking upon time-weathered cliffs. "Your insight will be welcome," the young Knight said, meaning quite the contrary.

"Then let us speak in the open air," he placidly replied, shepherding Tamasu and his wife into the sun-drenched garden before his bristling counterpart could make riposte.

Here, bathed in pure morning radiance, light stirring the languid morning air to warmth and vitality, a thousand green and growing lives basking in that superabundant outpouring, the groomed paths and the miniature convolutions of the herb garden no more than ornament upon the unrestrained _energy_ of fecund nature, they might seek _clarity._ They trod, two and two, along the perimeter path and took up stations between the herbarium and a graceful fountain courtyard, a safe distance outside earshot form the house.

Obi-Wan planted his feet shoulders' width apart and addressed his mother directly. "You have not been truthful."

It was too much for Tamasu's sensibilities. The older man's barrel chest puffed out, and he took a step in fron t of his wife. "Whatever station you have attained, whatever power you dare represent, I shall not tolerate such disrespect. No _daiji-aso_ of this house shall speak to its lady in such manner."

The young Jedi's mouth thinned. "I am not under your authority, Daijon."

The family patriarch growled, standing eye-to-eye with his offspring, a veritable stranger to him. "Then what authority do you so claim? For surely the Jedi Order does not teach such rank discourtesy."

Qui-Gon stood by, watchful and silent.

"And surely," Obi-replied, voice velvet and dangerous, "the honorable _daiso_ Kenobi does not wallow in such rank depravity as _treason."_

A spiraling silence. Ue gently pushed past her husband's protective grip. "Spare me this spectacle!" she begged them. "This is of my making; your harsh words are meant for me are they not, _daiji-aso?"_

The sun crept painstakingly upward along the ecliptic, its steep and appointed path. A thranctill circled overhead, keening to its mate. Bezzils thrummed drowsily among the flowers in the hedge maze.

"I am oath-sworn to protect and serve the Republic," Obi-Wan asserted, at last. "That is a _sacred_ obligation above all others."

But Ue's eyes were soft with understanding, with insight. "Then why," she softly queried, back straight and chin held high, "Have you not already cut me down, or arrested me for such unspeakable crimes, if this is your sole and exclusive duty?" Her gaze reached out to Qui-Gon, embracing him in the same plea. When no immediate answer was forthcoming, she pressed onward, despite her spouse's cautionary gesture. "Why do you hold me in contempt because I could not watch you suffer? Why do you accuse me of pitiless treason and yet condemn me for the weakness of pity? Your righteousness smacks of hypocrisy."

The petite woman stood trembling before her accuser, a scant arms-width between them, the two witnesses all but forgotten, morning light picking out auburn strands in either one's hair, crowning them both with gilded fire.

"Madame," Obi-Wan began, shoulders rigid with tension despite his carefully controlled voice.

'She is right," Qui-Gon interjected. "Are you offended more by attachment, or by betrayal? "

The young Knight turned upon him, the Force alightwith pain . "This is about the _Republic!"_ he snarled.

"It is about loyalties," the tall man corrected him.

"Yes. It is." Two not quite steady breaths. "Daijisa. Tell me why I should not arrest you for high treason, sedition, and conspiracy. "

"You would not dare!" Tamasu exclaimed, outrage carved deep in his lined face.

"I will do what I _must, Daijon!"_

Qui-Gon placed himself bodily between the parents and their quietly furious son. "Peace…. Let the lady speak. "


	28. Chapter 28

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 28**

"Tamasu, dearest…. I owe you my deepest regrets. I meant to tell you earlier – before- but, alas, so much transpired so quickly, and there were guests under our roof, I-"

Ue sank onto a carved bench, holding herself erect with the unconscious habit of long training, her hands folded primly upon her knees. The hem of her dress spilled onto the paving stones at her feet, its delicate hem soiled by specks of dust. She broke off and looked up at Obi-Wan, standing unmoving a pace away.

"Hear me out, _daiji-aso._ It was my folly that brought us together again… if disaster must come of our meeting, then let it at least be one tempered by understanding."

The young Jedi shoved hands into opposite sleeves. "I am listening."

"it began many years ago, when Daijon Mushibi was first appointed to the Senatorial post. He was a great friend of my father's _daiso,_ and it was he that introduced me to Tamasu as an eligible marriage partner. He was wonderfully observant, a true judge of character. When he left planet, he was sorely missed. But there were always occasions for me to travel to the Core. From time to time, a legal matter arises demanding the attention for one of our _daiso's _land tenants. We have always cleaved to tradition here; such affairs are too complex and financially difficult for most families to manage. Those responsible for the estate must tend to the expense and trouble, on behalf of those to whom they are patrons."

"And I, alas, am loathe to fly."

Ue smiled indulgently at her spouse. "Tamasu will not fly, particularly an interstellar journey. I assumed the burden gladly. Such demands only came up every year or two; I was able to make of the trip a sort of holiday. It was upon such a journey three years ago and more that I was able at last to meet you, Master Jinn; it was surely a providence that my humble errand should bring me to Coruscant simultaneously with that evil woman's trial."

"The ways of the Force are mysterious," Qui-Gon concurred.

"Whenever I made the journey, I would call upon Daijon Mushibi and trade news with him. He was not married; he relied upon me to bring him the sort of stories and information that only a native of one's own world , and a friend of one's family, can impart. And in turn he told me much of what he saw on Coruscant, in the broader Republic. He traveled extensively during his tenure as Senator – you see, he belonged to a small intellectual community, one that has members on many systems – a kind of historical society."

"The Sons of Liberty," Obi-Wan supplied. "We are already acquainted with it."

"Yes, the Sons. As time went by, he became more and more disgusted with the state of affairs in the Senate, and in the galaxy at large. He relayed more and more of what burdened his heart, and I began to fret, over the child I had surrendered to the Jedi Order. If what Mushibi aid was true, then I had committed a great atrocity, giving my own flesh and blood over into the service of a corrupt institution – for the Order serves the Republic. You have said it yourself."

Obi-Wan nodded, stonily.

"My fears have never quite been set to rest in that regard…. I thought, when you came to the Stewardship… but alas. It seems I have sought reassurance and found worse trouble instead. " She took a moment to recompose herself, chest heaving with buried emotion, and then continued. "The last time I saw Mushibi, he gave me a crystal – a memento, he said, of his last trip, to Naboo. He had attended a conference there, and described the beauty of its countryside and the gaiety of its cities in great detail. There was a shadow on his spirit, but I thought it was nothing but the cares of his post. By that time he was no longer eager to stay a second term, but Minister Ichiru would hear of nothing else, begged him to remain. Political squabbling here on the Stewardship has been growing steadily worse for a decade."

"As it has elsewhere also, Daijisa," Qui-Gon remarked.

"Yes. I … accepted the gift. Only after his death did I realize – did I wonder – oh Tamasu, I do not know why I never confided in you.. I had a _feeling_ about it, such a _dreadful_ feeling – but the murder, and then the elections and all the fighting and the attacks and the bombing and- " She covered her face briefly, but recovered with impressive rapidity. "I do not know, and you must believe me when I swear this to you, anything of the _patron_ that evil witch spoke of, nor do I know what that crystal contained. "

Obi-Wan frowned. "If you had a feeling that Mushibi's gift to you was _dangerous,_ then you should have told us immediately. By holding your peace you played into Zan Arbor's hands. Had we understood the true motives behind the attacks, we might have-"

"There is no might have, " the tall Jedi master interjected. "The lady has suffered for her choice, and no doubt regrets it. Bitter words will not change the past."

"You claim innocence, but you cannot claim ignorance of Mushibi's secret conviction." The young Knight withdrew a folded slip of paper and smoothed it before her. "This is a tractate published by the Sons of Liberty, is it not? Daijon Seniiko has an ancient printing press in his shed. I have seen it. These words were composed by Daijon Oneku, who displayed a notable eloquence at dinner. Copies of this pamphlet were distributed to a select coterie of symapthizers in the rotunda, by Daijon Kenobi, or others. You are _all_ implicated."

Tamasu gripped his wife's hand. "In what, I pray you tell us?"

"In fostering sedition and treason. This document urges _seccesion _ from the Republic as the only conscionable choice for a free system."

Tamasu rose. "We are free citizens of a free system – and we may hold what opinion we will. No crime has been committed, no illegal action taken. The killings and the university bombing were the work of some other organization – this off-world syndicate the Minister named in her address this morning. No act of seccession has been made; of what then do you accuse us, beyond cherishing beliefs in opposition to those inculcated into you as a tiny child?"

Obi-Wan gaped. "_Seccession," _ he repeated. "You are courting _cilvil war."_

But the older man held up a hand. "War is deplorable, and contrary to the dignity of sentient nature. If I harbor a hope in this lifetime, it is that such a radical renascence of _true_ democratic principles will be effected b y peaceable and legal means. A gentle sundering. And in such an eventuality, though I fear we would find ourselves then on two sides of an irreparable abyss of principle, there would be no _crime_ of treason, only a profound difference of perspective.

"I will not betray the Republic; but the Republic stands in great danger of betraying itself. And should that tragedy come to pass, and I or this system be presented a choice without violence, then I would choose to stand apart, just as you would be bound by your oath and private devotion to remain bound to its service unto the bitter end. I do not ask you to renounce your conviction – nor Atosowen or Kashi-Tan their respective folly – but I _shall not_ lay mine aside because it offends you, Jedi or not."

Having thus spoken his mind, the family patriarch drew himself up to his unimpressive height and offered his arm to Ue. "Judge as you see fit; act as you must_, Daiji-aso,_ Master Jedi, but do not waylay us any longer. I would break my fast within, before Iko-Re relieves the table of all its burdens. " He led his wife inside, brushing past the Jedi without a backward glance, the stubborn set of his back and shoulders as immovable as the lifeways of his world, the stone buttresses of his hereditary home.

"Well," Qui-Gon's words fell into the subsequent stunned silence like a pebble tossed in a frigid pond. "You've had your word. Now what?"

"I…" Obi-Wan swallowed. "They are still traitors. In their hearts."

"And are you such a sure judge of inner truth? Such presumption ill becomes a Jedi."

The young Knight bowed his head. "I…. they hold in contempt that which we are sworn to uphold."

"From a certain point of view. From another, they burn with the self-same passion, embrace the same ideals. Focus determines reality."

Obi-Wan stirred impatiently. "You'll be distributing seditious propaganda next, Master!"

Qui-Gon shrugged ."It would surprise not one member of the Council, nor likely any one at all – except perhaps you."

The joke fell flat, rebuffed by the same elaborate armor that kept Obi-Wan's inner citadel so impeccably fortified against siege.

"I am a Jedi; and these people have just _thrown in my face_ their distrust and outright condemnation of the Republic I am sworn to serve. How can I _know_ them – acknowledge them, even – and yet know this about them as well? Duty-"

"Our duty here is done. There is nothing more to do. New Dawn , and Janna Zan Arbor, have become a problem for another day; the unrest on Terajon has been resolved for the time being; the motive for Mushini's murder determined, though a mystery remains as to the identity of Zan Arbor's patron and the contents of the crystal. Duty bids us return to Coruscant. Compassion, on the other hand, bids us part from our hosts in peace and amity."

"I _cannot_ do that, and still do my duty. Surely you see that!"

"Alas, my sense of duty is not, as you never cease to point out, so finely calibrated as your own."

"What about the mission report? What am I to say?"

"_I_ will be composing the mission report," the tall man asserted. "As senior partner in the team, I reserve full right to claim the responsibility as my own. Your input will not be needed."

Obi-Wan stood, miserably hunched in his cloak, still agonizingly suspended on the horns of his own private dilemma. His defensive posture tightened, and then tightened another notch, arms crossed now and not merely folded, brows contracted into a scowl that should have made the garden's blooms wilt, shields tautening to a brittle intensity.

Shatterpoints were the key to eliciting any response. Qui-Gon spoke softly, pitching his query into the center of that seething stormcloud. "And why do you _care_ what beliefs they hold dearest to their hearts?"

A short breath. "Because, I…."

The Jedi master waited.

A hairline crack. "They are…."

Splintering.

"I wished…"

Collapse.

"Master. I need your counsel. I do not know what to do. And the Force is occluded, because of my emotions. Please help me."

Qui-Gon released his pent breath, and touched his former apprentice's shoulder. "You can _look the other way, _ Obi-Wan."

"_That's_ your revelatory wisdom?" the young Jedi exploded. "_Look the other way?"_

The tall man raised a brow. "Sophistry parades itself in dazzling raiment, while wisdom often walks in beggar's rags."

"Do not quote Master Seva at me!" A heaving breath, in which the vexed recipient of Qui-Gon's wisdom clamped down on his temper. "I'm – I need to think. Walk."

He stalked off, cloak flaring out behind him on the warm breeze, sunshine playing fondly upon the highlights in his hair, the gravel walk grinding beneath his heels as he set off into the broad pastures beyond, and disappeared from view.

Qui-Gon returned to the house; it was after all, time for breakfast.

* * *

Ue found him, many hours later, kneeling amid the heliotropes in the fallow field.

He thought at first that Qui-Gon might have sent her thither, but there was a hesitance and delicacy in her tread – and in her faint Force signature – that told him she had _sensed_ , or intuited, that this would be his retreat, his sanctuary. She drew closer, and sat down beside him, bunching her elaborate skirts about her knees and feet.

The wind caressed the white flowers, set the green ocean into a swaying tempest.

"I remember this place," he confided in her.

She plucked a single blossom and turned its sculpted trumpet in her hand. "That is good; you were named for it. I loved the _obiwan_ always – they that keep their faces always to the light. I knew, before I could give form to the thought, that you were born to turn away from me, toward some greater thing, Perhaps to become something more and different. I did not resent our parting, nor regret my choice…. But _daiji-aso, _ I wept bitterly. So bitterly."

Her hand committed the shorn blossom to the wind, which carried it away, into the sun-drenched distance. He wrapped his own fingers about hers, gently cradling that once-familiar hand in one now callused and tendon-knotted, trained to strength and skill, accustomed to hardship.

"Daijisa… we cannot meet again, after… this."

"I know. And yet I am glad of your coming. Despite all that has befallen us, and all that is now said."

The world parted, sundered into then and now, and now and hereafter, the Force carrying them to either side of destiny's chasm, the rift carved deep by the hand of fate. The wind blew, setting the green stalks and white pennants to shuddering.

Her fingers tightened about his, imploring. "Have you forgiven me yet for the weakness of my heart?"

He bowed his head, releasing to the wind's scouring currents the panting agony of those long minutes, the memory of Zan Arbor's cruel ultimatum.

"I gave you life; how then was I to watch it taken? And for a cause I did not comprehend."

He committed also to the wind his desire to _know- _ the twisting certainty that the crystal had buried in its depths some singular, devastating truth, some warning or message desperately needed and now lost forever. Whatever Mushibi had found on Naboo was now dust, blowing away on that same ephemeral breeze, into the ever-mutable future.

He returned the subtle pressure about his fingers. "I do not blame you. Forgive me my arrogance and … cruelty."

"you are not cruel. Passion is not cruelty."

"Passion is forbidden."

"And love?"

He blinked away the stinging moisture wrung from his eyes by the dancing wind, the day's blinding noon-tide.

Ue smiled, and leaned closer, brushing her free hand against his cheek. "Oh…sweetheart."

"…Ama."

The wind blew, carrying the moment , like fluttering blossom, or coiling incense, into the sky's blue and radiant infinity, into the oblivion of that which cannot endure, into acceptance, into peace.


	29. Chapter 29

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 29**

"I did not say I am _incompetent;_ I merely said that the weapon is _inelegant."_

Iko-Re scoffed. "I don't buy that. You're blustering."

Kashi-Tan and Atasowen stood by, shifting foot to foot.

The youngest son of the family appealed to his siblings. "You two – you can be witnesses. Let's see who's a better shot, me or my Jedi brother."

"Don't be _stupid,_ Iko," Kashi-Tan grumbled.

Atosowen snorted in amusement. "You might as well exhort Gog and Magog not to bark."

The decrepit animals in question wagged their tails and set up a loud baying of approval, until the repeated admonition s of their masters sent them padding away.

"Jedi do not participate in frivolous displays of skill."

The dark-haired youth smirked. "Then you can watch and be amazed." He clipped a fresh cartridge into his lightweight target blaster pistol and programmed the skeet-pitching droid. "I'll go first. Set the bar high." Dimples appearing to either side of his radiant smile, he took up stance and waited as the machine blipped its readiness and sent the first of ten clay disks sailing skyward over the open field behind the house.

He turned out to be a _very_ good shot indeed.

"Seven," Kashi-Tan declared, when the round was finished.

"Eight!" the sharp-shooter protested. "I got eight!"

"That last doesn't… doesn't _count," _ his brother objected. "You only clipped it; it has to break clean into pieces."

Iko-re rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, let's split scholastic hairs… 'Owen. That was eight."

The eldest leaned against the low stone wall, arbitrating the dispute. "Eight out of ten."

"There. What do you think of that, Master Jedi?"

Obi-Wan cocked a brow. "So uncivilized."

"He can beat you blindfolded, Iko. Don't delude yourself."

"Ha! I'd like to see him try." The pawky adolescent produced a strip of dark cloth, waving it belligerently in front of the judges.

"There is no try," the young Jedi retorted, snatching the blindfold from his taunting relative and fixing it in place over his eyes. "Give me the star-forsaken blaster."

Atasowen was already silently chuckling.

Oblivious to his folly, Iko Re hurried off to reload a fresh batch of targets. "Do your worst!" he called out, merrily, setting the machine at highest speed.

Kashi-Tan counted out the hits. "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine and ten, holy _carpu _ two in one – and that would be _eleven!" _The last clay disk exploded into spinning fragments a bare centimeter above the release slot.

"Eleven out of ten," Atasowen wheezed, tears of mirth streaming down his face. "You just got your arse whipped, Iko. "

The defeated contestant gawked at the shards littering the lawn. "_Kriff's_ sake."

"It's still uncivilized," Obi-Wan decided, handing the weapon back with a slight curl of the lip.

"…._Kriff," _ Iko-Re breathed, transfixed with envy.

"You can't do _that_ with a lightsaber, though," Kashi-Tan pointed out, academically.

"No," Obi-Wan placidly replied. "I would have simply scrapped the skeet shooter and avoided all that trouble in the first place."

* * *

There were certain forms of trouble not so easily avoided, however; Ue had insisted upon the formality of another family dinner as send-off for her Jedi guests.

Spicy djo mercifully did not make an encore appearance upon the table; and Qui-Gon was more than generous – _immoderate,_ to be precise – in the replenishing of his young friend's wine glass. By the end of dessert, even the obligatory exchange of mortifying anecdotes did not seem to badly ruffle the young Jedi's serenity.

"I about suffered a coronary when I saw that holo-book _floating_ down off its shelf," 'Owen confessed.

Ue smiled fondly. "He would play hide and seek, and poor 'Owen would look for hours without finding him. I always wondered how that was… he would be sitting under a table sucking his fingers, and 'Owen would look directly at him then pass on without _seeing."_

Qui-Gon nodded. "Reflexive shielding. It is a common Jedi trait."

Tamasu chuckled. "He would fuss whenever a storm was brewing – a regular meteorological index, the boy was."

"And when guests were about to arrive – he would cry before they rang the bell. It was strange," Ue added.

"Undifferentiated prescience. Also common in Force-sensitive infants."

Old Seniiko, who had shown up earlier and been invited to stay, chuckled softly. "Is greedy muja gobbling a Jedi trait, too, Daijon Jinn?"

The tall man smiled, leaning back in his seat with legs stretched before him. "Some characteristics are unique to their subjects."

Obi-Wan merely arched his brows.

"Speaking of mujas, I've brought along a parting gift of sorts," the elder remarked. He rummaged in a pocket of his long robe and brought forth a rosy-skinned fruit. "This for one," – the coveted delicacy levitated its way across the table into the young Knight's waiting hand. "-and an antique sword for another. Metal. Pre-spacefaring epoch, I should say."

"Such an artifact is of great value; are you certain-"

Seniiko cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Take it back to Coruscant. The Jedi Temple is home to an astounding archive of such things, no? It would please me to donate it… and my dear daijisa, may she rest in peace, never approved of it anyway. You relieve my conscience of a burden."

"We will be happy to accept your donation, on behalf of the Order and the Republic."

"But if you ever have a mind to unload that old racing pod," Iko-Re interjected, "You needn't look so far afield."

"Indeed not," his father coughed. "The district recycling center is within twenty klicks of his borders."

* * *

Tamasu shut the study door, and clasped his hands behind his back, feet planted shoulder's width apart.

"We have not had occasion to speak in private since your arrival," he said. "I would not let this opportunity pass."

Obi-Wan dipped his head, subliminally aware that he had drunk _a great deal_ of wine, and was perhaps feeling a slight vestibular distortion attributable thereto. "Your hospitality honors me, Daijon, and though … a certain discord still exists between us, I would not part ways in bitterness."

The patriarch's lined eyes twinkled. "Agree to disagree? Very diplomatic."

"Oh, I can dig my heels in and harangue my opponents into apoplectic rage, when occasion demands it," the young Jedi assured him, a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

A hearty snort."Well. Perhaps it is just as well.. your poor mother. There are already three of us… four might have been too much."

"Too much debate at _every meal?"_

The older man chuckled, then sighed, levity fleeing him. "I wish to say this to you now, while the Force blesses this moment. I have always followed my conscience; and I shall always do so. With whatever disapprobation you receive the my principles, and those of my friends, know this: they are the hard-won convictions of men dedicated to freedom and truth, above their own lives. This much I think you understand."

A grave silence. "I do."

"If a time should come, when we are obliged to take a stand upon opposite sides of some disastrous fault line… I should wish at least to mutually recognize that we are both men bound by honor."

Obi-Wan bowed, a weight of premonition sliding uneasily into his gut. "As you say, Daijon."

"Tell me," the silver haired man continued, quietly. "Master Jinn. Was he good to you?"

Taken aback, Obi-Wan blinked. "I-"

"I am not conversant with your ways – not entirely- but I can see clearly who it was that assumed the mantle that by nature would have been mine. "

"Master Jinn is wise, and powerful, and a great Jedi. I could have asked for no better teacher, nor a better friend and counselor."

But the assertion did not satisfy. " Clearly he has done his work well, with compassion - and stern discipline when required… I am not squeamish, _daiji-aso. _ He has your respect and loyalty; but besides this, has he also your affection?"

"We do not –"

"But I do."

There were few in the galaxy who had the audacity to ask, and fewer still to who might lay claim to the right; Tamasu, however, must number among those very few. And one demand for truth was justly met with another.

"I love him as a father."

The words startled their speaker, as though the confession has sounded out of some secret depth, unbidden and epiphanic. But Tamasu only nodded, solemnly, relinquishing some impalpable burden.

The patriarch threw an arm out, encompassing in his gesture the house and all the dusking landscape beyond. "This, I bequeath to the other boys. To you, alas, is left nothing but a legacy not mine to give. I can offer neither protection nor refuge, nor counsel, nor even the paltry wealth I inherited from my own forebears. I wonder… will you take with you the least thing I have to offer: my blessing?"

It was only civilized. It was only _right._ Obi-Wan knelt, and the elder laid both hands on his head.

"Walk in peace; and if such is denied you, then walk with honor. And may the Force you serve keep you, always."

* * *

It was Ue who accompanied them to the spaceport, and delivered them to the docking platform form whence their transport would depart. The night was warm, though a humidity hung in the air, promising more rain. The massive passenger vessel's ramps were lowered, embarkation already in progress.

Ue curtseyed to the tall Jedi master. "For your service to Terajon, and my family, I will always be grateful, Master Jinn. Fare well."

"May the Force be with you, Daijisa." The tall man hoisted both travel packs in one hand and strode away, hailing one of the steward droids.

"Obi-Wan."

They stood, mere paces away from a second and final parting. He bowed his head, bereft of words.

Ue took his hands in hers. "I make no claim upon you, for I know you cannot and must not be so burdened. But hear me: if ever, for whatever cause, you have need of me, of us…. I will give without expectation of return."

His words cleaved hoarsely to his throat, as though unwilling to be cast into irrevocable speech. "I have never thanked you…. for giving me life, twice over."

"There is no need. But will you ask, will you call upon me, if desperate need arise?"

He held her hands, clinging. Not clinging.

"Promise me, _daiji-aso."_

It was the only gift he could bestow. "You have my word."

Ue reached upwards, standing upon tip-toes, and pressed her lips to his forehead. "Farewell, then. "

She released him, and he went, the formal benediction echoing like melancholy reed chimes playing in a bodiless wind. _ May the Force be with you._

He lengthened his stride to catch up with Qui-Gon, blind to the squalor and noise of the port, and was swallowed into the ship's hull.

The last she saw of him was a dark hood pulled hastily forward, concealing his face.

* * *

There was an observation lounge on the forward passenger deck; Qui-GOn found his young companion stationed at before the panoramic viewport, though the ship had jumped into hyperspace twenty minutes previously, the glorious star-scape melted into myriad striations of light, a pageantry with no beginning and no end, nor any distinct shape or form.

He sidled up to the rail and gently tugged the voluminous cowl down, his hand dropping onto Obi-Wan's forearm. "The Council will want our report immediately upon arrival; you should perhaps rest now while there is time."

A wry smile, dredged up as a special courtesy for him. "I can't sleep in hyperspace."

"Nonsense. I've _seen_ it happen, Obi-Wan."

Blue eyes shifted sideways; the weird sworls of hyperspace glinted dully in their glossy depths. "It was strange to be there… and yet now, it is strange to be gone. Why is that?"

The Jedi master exhaled slowly. "The past _indwells_ the present moment. It is perhaps disorienting to shift focus between these two planes – but they are ultimately one reality, not two."

Obi-Wan frowned, still aching from a loss sustained twenty years earlier, an infant's scream of parting wafting up form murkiest depths into the Force's bright presence, a thing long held captive and fettered now stumbling into the open, shaky and hoarse, weakened by its long exile but never extinguished. It rose and hung unvoiced in the void, and was at last received by the plenitude that bound all things together, however disparate they might be, and was heard.

It was done, again and at last: a sundering, a birth, a labor consummated.

The young Jedi leaned heavily upon the rail, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut. "…_Master."_

Qui-Gon's arm encircled his shoulders, pulled him close. And there they stood, while the blearing stars spun out from infinity into slowly unraveling infinity, and the Force shone perpetually upon a field ablaze with white flowers, their hearts raised in adoration.


	30. Chapter 30

**Legacy II**

* * *

**Chapter 30**

Mace Windu's fingers were steepled together, his dark eyes hooded. "You exhorted the Prime Minister to _relinquish_ her system's independent representation in the Senate?"

Qui-Gon Jinn shifted restlessly, impatient beneath the revered Korun's scrutiny. "Bipartisan tension on the world has reached such an extremity that no other viable option presented itself. Our mission mandate was to insure a peaceful outcome."

"Of an _election!"_Mace thundered.

"Of a transition," his maverick colleague placidly replied.

Ki Adi Mundi cleared his throat. "The voting conglomerates _have_ proved effective in streamlining the democratic process in recent decades. The supreme courts find them constitutional; Terajon's enrollment in such a collective body does not constitute a violation of principle."

Qui-Gon dipped his head gratefully to the Cerean Jedi master.

Mace subsided into brooding disapprobation. "I do not _trust_ the bloc system. It smacks of corporate consolidation – especially since the Trade guilds have been allowed to _buy_ their way into the Senate."

"We are not here to debate the relative merits of the Republic's representation system," Adi Gallia reminded them all. "The only question is whether the Stewardship has been spared further strife."

"Contention still flourishes, but the threat of violence is greatly diminished, " Qui-Gon asserted. "Minister Ichiru expressed satisfaction with the outcome – and Chancellor Valorum has expressed his approval."

Obi-Wan, studiously keeping his head down in the midst of this verbal fire fight, winced at his former master's bold evocation of the Chancellor's authority. It was never, in his limited experience, wise to _go over the heads_ of the Jedi Council.

Master Yoda stirred out of his gargoylish impassivity, ears twitching. "Unconventional solution, you have found, Qui-Gon."

"The right solution for the circumstances," the tall man insisted, refusing to be patronized.

The Grand Master grunted sardonically, and then skewered the young Knight with his gimlet gaze. "Obi-Wan – what say you of this? Concurred with Master Jinn's decision, did you?"

The subject of this unfair inquisition flicked a glance sideways at his mentor; Qui-Gon's chin lifted fractionally, conveying bland indifference to the answer, a self-assurance surpassing any courtesy or claim of reason. "Of course it was a collaborative decision," he asserted.

Yoda's wrinkled lips pursed in a thin line; his eyes slatted into two accusatory crescents. But he said nothing, despite his obvious suspicions.

Obi-Wan tightened mental shields to breaking point. _You owe me, Master._

"Staunch accomplice you possess, Qui-Gon. Enviable is such loyalty."

"I value Obi-Wan's insight greatly," the tall man allowed, inclining his head. Grey eyes slid sideways, crinkling slightly at the corners; a subtle murmuring of gratitude warmed the Force's currents.

Mace Windu was not to be so easily placated. "We have other pressing concerns; this _New Dawn_ merits close monitoring, especially since Jenna Zan Arbor appears to have found a new focus for her zealotry."

"And a new _patron, _Masters," Obi-Wan pointed out. "We have yet to discover whom she serves."

"Wealthy," Yoda mused. "Powerful, well-connected."

"If Sifo Dyas were not slain," Mace growled, "I would name him as mastermind."

Yan Dooku tapped elegant fingers against his seat's armrest. "A new threat is stirring, on the borders and in the heart of the Republic. A threat with no name or face, as of yet. We must make the _unmasking_ of this patron our prime priority."

"Agreed," his Korun colleague rumbled.

"Submit, you will, a full report to the Archives database," Yoda commanded, mercifully abbreviating the session. "Peruse its details later, we shall."

Debriefing complete, Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan fled for the relative shelter of the lift tube.

"You owe me, Master."

The tall Jedi master let his weight fall back against the compartment's burnished wall, chuckling deep in his throat. "You have indeed snatched me from the nexu's jaws, as it were."

"Yes, and it's going to cost you dinner in the city. What about Dex's new place?"

The Temple's resident rogue spread his hands in regret. "Alas, I promised to help Master Pertha rake the Serenity Garden's sand this evening. Perhaps when we are finished? Unless you would care to join us."

Obi-Wan crossed his arms smugly. "No, no – I shan't sully your meditative bliss with my presence."

"It was not so much an invitation as a suggestion. You would benefit from such a soothing exercise… especially after this last mission."

All too familiar with the monotony of aforesaid exercise, having been subjected to its purported calming properties time and again during his stint as Qui-Gon's padawan, the young Knight inwardly relished the privilege of his station and its concomitant freedoms. "I think not."

Qui-Gon raised a hand. "Don't make me pull rank."

Obi-Wan raised a brow. "Don't make me laugh."

The lift hit rock bottom and opened onto the colonnaded Hall of Concordant Unity.

"Comm me when you're finished!" the younger man called after the Jedi master's rapidly retreating figure.

He was answered with a curt wave, which he interpreted as a flag of truce and a promissory note for dinner, and then sought out a less _tedious_ occupation for his own evening.

* * *

Dooku returned from the extended Council session to find his private quarters comfortably occupied by an insouciant trespasser.

The Sentinel cast a withering eye upon the door's code key plate. "I see there has been some malfunction."

Obi-Wan opened his eyes, unfurling from the Force's timeless embrace, mouth twitching mischievously. "Not at all. I simply informed the maintenance supervisor droid that your plumbing was impacted, and then intercepted the repair droid when it arrived. The override sequence was 67aurek9, by the way."

Dooku's mouth thinned. "I shall have to reprogram the system parameters, I see." He padded across the common room, and folded his black cloak onto a narrow console table. "Do make yourself _at home_."

"Thank you," his uninvited guest replied, dipping his head respectfully.

A snort, which might have been darkly amused. The silver haired Jedi folded himself upon another cushion, taking up position at the ebony table dominating the room's austere décor.

"So," he murmured, regarding his young companion thoughtfully. "You have run afoul of Jenna Zan Arbor once again. I must say, the two of you seem bound by a curious magnetism."

Obi-Wan's hackles rose, invisibly. "It was not a welcome encounter."

Dooku flicked dust from his sleeve. "She is but a pawn in some greater scheme.. but I will allow you, the vile creature deserves swift justice."

"Which has been already once been visited upon her and left no scar."

The senior Jedi waved a dismissive hand. "Justice must sometimes be sought outside the delusional strictures of a mock trial. I wonder whether your recurrent entanglements with the good Doctor do not augur the judgment of destiny."

"A Jedi seeks not revenge," Obi-Wan warily countered.

"But the Force may wreak vengeance on the legions of Darkness," Dooku intoned. "And there is no greater service than the sublimation of personal desire into greater Purpose."

The young Knight remained wrapped in a pensive silence.

"Someday," his host prophesied, "You will dare to claim your birthright. There are few in any generation who are called upon to be true blades of Light - instruments of the universal Force."

Obi-Wan shunted his discomfort with this oft-repeated proclamation into that self-same Force, diverting the conversation into more amenable channels. "Speaking of blades, Master, we brought back a curious artifact from Terajon. A forged sword – metal, pre-spacefaring epoch, the previous owner surmised. Although, I'm not so sure. It has a strange… signature. Qui-Gon and I both agreed."

"Intriguing," the Sentinel murmured. "And where is this oddity now?"

"We sent it back to Coruscant in a stasis container. It should be in the Archives accessioning level by now."

Dooku rested his perfectly manicured hands upon dark trouser knees. "I shall importune Jocasta Nu later, then, and have a look at this marvel."

They sat, each warily contemplating the other, for a long span of minutes.

"You are disturbed," the Shadow observed, at long last, the barest glint of sympathy stirring in his deep set eyes.

Obi-Wan studied his folded hands, then withdrew the folded paper tractate from an inner pocket. "This," he admitted, on a soft exhalation, and extended the antiquated document to his companion.

Dooku's fingers smoothed the parchment flat upon one knee. His silver brows contracted delicately as he perused its contents, then rose. "Impressive, " he murmured. "Most impressive."

"It is seditious propaganda," his young guest frowned.

"No, no," the older man purred. "I would not so malign the author of this treatise… from whom did it originate?"

The young Knight's shoulders lifted, casually. "Person or persons unknown."

It was difficult to say whether Dooku believed him or not; certainly the Sentinel's mental shields were as impeccable as his own, a smoked glass reflecting back only the hazed assumptions of the inquisitor. "Still," the older man said, "It is good to know that _intellect_ has not died out entirely from the galaxy at large."

"Nor the impulse to treason?"

But Dooku only chuckled, a soundless shimmering in the plenum. "My dear boy, rebellion against tyranny and decay can hardly be counted as _treason. _" A weighted pause. "There may come a time when the Republic's true friends are those who dare stand against her corrupted doppelganger."

"Master!"

The Sentinel seemed to dismiss his own outrageous claim with an airy gesture, but an oracular gong-note still resonated ominously in the Force. Obi-Wan stirred, unease trickling into his limbs, prompting him to restless squirming.

"May I keep this?" the older man asked, simply.

Surprised, his companion blinked, and then nodded. "Of course." He watched as the paper was carefully folded and then slipped between the layers of Dooku's tunics. "It is of no consequence to me."

"Of course it isn't," the Shadow replied, his thin smile a trenchant benediction. "And I shall see that it is suitably preserved ."

Task accomplished, Obi-Wan bowed his respect and fled the scene, unexpectedly glad to be relieved of the damning piece of evidence, the indelibly scrawled dictates of some fickle and heartless fate, the future's indecipherable book.

He would live in the _present moment._

* * *

"I'm _famished; just _how long _precisely _does it take to achieve transcendent serenity, Master?"

Qui-Gon, characteristically, was merely amused by his annoyance. "As ever, you ask the wrong question, Obi-Wan."

"I'm coming down there myself to _expedite the process_."

A suppressed chuckled edged the tall man's reply. "We'll have a rake waiting for you."

* * *

When every stone, from pebble to boulder, had been placed with exquisite care so that the sum balance was in perfect equilibrium, and every grain of sand had been painstakingly raked into concentric overlapping circles about these immutable anchor-points, the surface of the rock garden an unruffled representation of stillness-in-motion, the two elder Jedi declared that the meditation was complete, and stood beaming upon their handiwork.

Obi-Wan stowed his rake in the small storage shed. "You do realize the younglings will be in here tomorrow morning, wreaking havoc in every direction?"

Master Pertha only beamed indulgently. "There is no chaos, there is harmony."

Qui-Gon held out a hand over the pristine spectacle, doomed to be prematurely trampled into disarray by eagerly scampering feet. "This is what the next generation exists to accomplish, my young friend: the feckless disruption of established wisdom. By teaching, we are pushed to relinquish our attachment to the first forms in which we embody our own wisdom, and to achieve motion-in-stillness. Wonderful, is the mind of a child."

"I am _not_ taking a padawan, if that's what you're building up to here."

The aged Togruta chuckled heartily. "Force's sake, Qui-Gon, feed the lad – plummeting blood sugar has a very deleterious effect upon temper and mood."

Obi-Wan flushed, despite himself.

"Come along," the tall Jedi master told his friend. "The diner closes its doors at midnight, and we both know you fly slower than a paranoid old biddy."

His former apprentice shrugged into his cloak. "_You_ are picking up the bill, don't forget."

"Dex won't charge us, anyhow."

They made a graceful double bow to Agrion Pertha, and held each other's laughing gaze without breaking their perfect sabaac-face for a long few seconds, and then strode away side by side, poised at the fulcrum of motion-in-stillness, upon the brink of a tumultuous future.

**End Book II**


End file.
